THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


AND 


SKETCHES  OF  THE  POETS. 


BY 


M.    T.    DOWNING. 


RYE  HOMESTEAD,  WESTCHESTER  CO.,  N.  Y. 
1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1SG7,  by 
M.  T.  DOWXIXG, 

In  the  Clei-U's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  tho 
Southern  District  of  New-York. 


James  Dickson,  Printer,  1,  2,  3  &  4  Tryon  Row.  Xew.York. 


TS 


PAGE. 


CRUCIFIXION 5 

TWILIGHT   MUSINGS 7 

EVENING  PRAYER Q 

MEMO-IKES 10 

SCHILLER 12 

TO  M.  A.D 47 

DEDICATED  TO  FANNY 49 

ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTOR...... 51 

IN  MEMORIAM 9i 

THE  ANGEL  OF  MY  WEARY  HOUR 97 

THE  BEAUTIFUL 90 

THE  OLD  COTTAGE 101 

TO  J.  C.  G 103 

SILVER  LAKE,  RYE 105 

TO  AN  ABSENT  CHILD 108 

EPITHALAMIUM 110 

ELIZABETH  C.  BROWNING 112 

TO  KITTIE  B 154 

NEW  YEAR  SONG 15G 

MARY,  THE  IMMACULATE 158 

ECCEHOMO...  ..161 


762949 


CONTENTS. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON 162 

THE  RELIC  OF  HAIR 202 

DEAR   MAMMA 204 

TO  T.  H.  D 206 

PRETTY  BIRDLING 208 

JOHN  KEATS 210 

LA  SOEUR  DE  CHARITE 251 

IN  MEMORIAM,  G.  C 258 

NURSERY  SONG 260 

TO  S.  M.  R 262 

ROBERT  BURNS 265 

MOTHER  WELL 29^ 

AYE  MARIA 302 

TO  AN  ABSENT  BROTHER 305 

MERRY  CHRISTMAS 307 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. . .  .< 311 

CHRISTMAS  SONG 336 

TO  M.  H 838 

AUTUMN  RAMBLE 339 

DB.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 341 

AYE  MARIA 365 

HYMN  OF  THE  NATIVITY 366 

TO  MY  SISTER 3G8 

AYE  SANCTISSIMA 370 

CHRISTMAS  MORN 372 

IN  MEMORIAM-H.  C 375 

BEAUTIFUL  RIYER 377 

FARE\VELL  ..  , 379 


PREFACE. 


MY  DEAR  CHILDREN  : 

At  length  I  yield  to  your  reiterated  re 
quests,  and  present  in  a  compact  form  the 
little  breathings  of  affection  with  which 
my  heart  has  often  beguiled  itself  in  ad 
dressing  you.  Valuable  only  as  a  proof  of 
maternal  affection,  they  will  remind  you  of 
the  past,  while  recalling  scenes  and  cir 
cumstances  now  passed  away  forever — for 
to  each  little  poem  there  is  a  memory 
known  only  to  ourselves. 


IV  PREFACE. 

The  Biographical  Sketches,"  and  "  Notes, 
on  the  Poets,"  while  they  were  compiled 
for  your  ultimate  improvement,  were  thought 
at  the  time  too  advanced  for  the  capaci 
ties  of  all  our  household  band,  as  their 
readings  have  been  given  to  you  at  different 
times.  The  pleasure  of  novelty  is  necessa 
rily  precluded  by  a  former  acquaintance;  but 
instead  of  this,  you  will  find  the  tender  in 
terest  of  association,  which  to  your  minds 
will  supersede  that  of  talent  and  ability. 

Accept,  my  dear  ones,  in  the  repugnance 
which  I  have  conquered  to  comply  with 
your  wishes,  another  evidence  of  my  devoted 
love. 

YOUR  MOTHER. 


CRUCIFIXION. 


A  beautiful  picture  of  the  Crucifixion 
hangs  over  the  altar  of  St.  Mary's,  where 
from  our  earliest  recollections  we  were  used 
to  assemble  for  divine  worship.  So  dear  had 
it  become  to  us,  that  we  often  felt  a  longing 
when  absent  to  gaze  upon  the  sad  and  beauti 
ful  lineaments  there  represented. 

MY  Jesus,  I  am  sadly  gazing, 
Upon  that  still,  pale  form  of  Thine; 

The  thronged  worshippers  have  left  Thee, 
And  I  alone  bend  at  Thy  shrine. 

Nearer,  still  nearer,  I  approach  Thee, 
Nor  pause,  till  prostrate  at  Thy  feet; 

Refuse  me  not,  my  Lord  and  Master, 
This  commune  short,  these  moments  brief. 


CRUCIFIXION. 

Here  ?ncath  the  shadow  of  Thy  woes, 
I  learn  the  ransom  paid  for  man; 

Thine  be  the  school,  ray  heart  to  teach — • 
Thine  be  the  rule,  each  act  to  scan. 

And  thou,  sweet  Mary,  mother,  mine, 
On  his  cold  brow  thy  lips  are  pressed; 

Thy  twining  arms  are  'round  Him  flung, 
With  more  than  human  tenderness. 

Oh !  by  the  love  thou  clid'st  receive, 
Oh !  by  the  love  thou  did'st  impart, 

Obtain  for  me,  I  ask  no  more, 
A  refuge  in  His  bleeding  heart 


TWLIGH1T  MUSINGS.  "   7 


TWILIGHT    MUSINGS, 


'Tis  the  hour  my  spirit  loves — 
Twilight,  with  its  robes  of  gray, 

With  the  deeper  shades  of  eve  n, 
Other  thoughts  and  feelings  play. 

Now  I  close  my  eyes  to    outward. 

Now  my  soul  is  turned  within, 
Welcome,  memory,  with  my  dear  ones, 

Lead  them,  softly,  gently  in. 

Once  again,  those  happy  faces, 
Sm  iles  and  tender  looks  of  love ; 

Memory,  thou  hast  holy  power, 
Traversing  the  realms  above. 


TWILIGHT  MUSINGS. 

I  lend  me  to  the  sweet  delusion, 

And  I  listen,  mother  dear, 
For  the  prayers  you  taught  my  childhood 

Seem  to  float  upon  my  ear. 

Sister!  with  the  deep,  dark  eye, 

Sister!  with  the  poet  brow, 
Thy  soft  notes  at  eventide 

Linger,  oh!  so  fondly  now. 

Mother,  sister,  absent  brother, 
Parted  by  the  deep,  blue  main, 

Shall  we  ever  clasp  each  other? 
Shall  we  ever  meet  again  ? 

Though  my  present  hath  its  gladness, 
Though  my  steps  are  watched  by  lore, 

Still  I  languish  for  the  hour 
When  on  memory's  wings  I  rove. 

Then  I  hail  the  pensive  twilight, 
And  its  mantling  robes  of  gray, 

With  the  deeper  shades  of  even, 
Other  thoughts  and  feelings  play. 


EVENING   PRAYER. 


EVENING    PRAYER, 


FATHER  !  in  this  holy  hour, 

As  the  star  of  daylight  fades, 
Listen  to  my  heart's  low  pleadings, 

Grant  me  Thy  support  and  aid. 
Thou  hast  borne  from  earliest  reason 

With  my  weak,  imperfect  will; 
Holy  Father !  guide,  sustain  me, 

Be  my  shield  and  succor  still. 
In  Thy  power  no  ill  can  reach  me, 

In  Thy  strength  no  harm  befall; 
Send  Thy  blessing  to  my  pillow, 

As  I  nightly  on  Thee  call. 


10  MEMORIES. 


MEMORIES. 


What  have  I  to  do  with  by-gones, 
In  my  cheerful  home  to-night, 

With  my  children's  happy  faces, 
Gleaming  in  their  rosy  light? 

Why  docs  memory  that  has  slumbered 
Thro'  long  years  of  joy  and  pain, 

Bring  a  presence  long  since  vanished, 
To  my  vision  back  again? 

Why,  when  I  would  rest  me  quiet, 
In  a  home  replete  with  love, 

Do  those  scenes  so  long  forgotten,- 
All  my  saddest  feelings  move? 


MEMORIES.  11 

Who  will  tell  me  why  I  wander 

In  the  weird  land  of  the  past, 
Turning  from  the  joy  and  sunshine, 

Shadows  o?er  my  way  to  cast? 

I  mind  me  of  a  noble  poet, 

Who  hath  said  a  word,  a  tone, 
Will  recall  through  scenes  dissonant, 

Thoughts  we  deemed  forever  gone. 

But,  away !  I  will  not  cherish 

What  I  would  not  now  recall; 
Numberless  the  many  blessings 

Which  are  shed  around  us  all. 

I  at  least  shall  learn  to  prize  them, 

And  shall  praise  my  God  alway, 
For  the  many  prayers  unanswered, 

That  were  breathed  in  life's  young  day. 

So  my  dear  ones,  if  I  wandered, 

For  awhile  on  memory's  sea, 
Back  ray  little  bark  has  drifted, 

To  the  home  prepared  by  thee. 


12  JOHANN  CHPJSTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER. 


JOHANN    CfflllSTOPH    FPJEDERICH    SCHILLER 

was  Lorn  November  llth,  1759.  Fortune 
placed  him  in  that  condition  of  life  which  is 
generally  considered  to  be  most  conducive 
to  literary  eminence — between  wealth  and 
penury,  neither  enervated  by  the  one,  nor 
depressed  by  the  other, — the  representative 
of  a  station  where  genius  often  finds  her  most 
favored  sons. 

His  father,  JOHANN  CASPAR  SCHILLER,  was 
a  man  of  an  adventurous  character;  stern, 
exacting  and  fond  of  military  glory.  At  the 
time  of  our  hero's  birth,  he  held  the  situa 
tion  of  ensign  and-  adjutant  in  the  Wurtem- 
burg  army;  still  he  was  fond  of  his  family, 


JOHANN  CRISTOPII  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER.    13 

and  remarkable  for  the  scrupulous  integrity 
of  his  character;  but  his  mother,  according 
to  biographers,  was  a  woman  of  mild  exterior, 
with  manners  peculiarly  sweet  and  gentle — 
somewhat  grave  and  serious,  perhaps.  Her 
favorite  occupation  was  to  amuse  her  chil 
dren  with  tales  calculated  to  instruct  the 
understanding  or  arouse  the  fancy;  as  they 
grew  older,  she  repeated  to  them  verses, 
which  she  herself  loved  and  appreciated.  In 
this  early  school  of  maternal  affection,  the 
imagination  was  developed,  and  tastes  and 
feelings  awakened  in  unison  with  her  own. 
Like  the  mother  of  Lamartine,  she  early  in 
culcated  a  deep  and  fervent  sense  of  religion, 
by  stories  and  passages  from  the  life  of  the 
Redeemer;  often  the  tears  of  her  little  pupils 
attested  their  sympathy  and  commisseration 
and  to  this  early  training  may  be  traced  the 


14  JOHANN  CPJSTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER. 

religious  bias  which  ever  marked  the  charac 
ter  -of  Schiller,  and  which  showed  itself  in  a 
strong  predilection  for  an  ecclesastical  pro 
fession.  This  desire  remained  with  him  for 
many  years,  and  it  was  with  extreme  regret 
he  was  obliged  to  give  up  what  had  been  his 
darling  project.  His  father,  however,  had 
made  different  arrangements  for  his  son,  and 
by  placing  him  in  the  millitary  seminary  of 
the  Grand  Duke  of  Wurtemburg,  he  virtu 
ally  deprived  him  of  the  liberty  of  choice. 
Benefits  were  showered  upon  his  family;  hia 
father  was  raised  to  the  rank  of  major,  and 
young  Schiller  was  proroised  an  appointment 
in  the  Royal  service. 

A  desire  from  the  Duke  was  equivalent  to 
a  command,  and  Friederich  complied  with 
the  wishes  of  his  father;  already  he  was 
learning  to  sacrifice  his  own  wishes,  but  tho 


JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRJEDERICH  SCHILLER.    15 

obedience  and  affection  of  a  child,  Avhile  it 
softened  his  disinclination,  could  not  entirely 
smother  the  keen  resentment  which  the  re 
nunciation  of  his  early  hopes  produced.  In 
tellectual  liberty  had  been  his  passion;  all 
books  not  included  in  the  school  routine  were 
denied  to  the  students.  This  only  served  to 
increase  the  desire,  and  the  moments  stolen 
from-  his  severer  studies,  to  be  devoted  to  his 
favorite  authors,  were  the  happiest  of  his 
school  life.  If  he  had  been  charmed  with 
Klopstock,  he  was  inspired  with  Goethe. 
The  teachings  of  this  great  master  found  an 
echo  in  the  hitherto  slumbering  thoughts  of 
Schiller,  by  maintaining  that  the  classical 
spirit  of  every  nation  must  be  found  in  the 
genius  of  its  own  romance.  This  idea,  so  in 
consonance  with  his  own  belief,  formed  for 
him  the  determination  to  thoroughly  acquaint 


16   JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER. 

himself  with  German  literature  before  he 
attempted  the  study  of  any  other.  Still  the 
desire  to  serve  God  in  a  religious  profession 
remained  dominant  in  his  heart,  and  he  at 
tempted  once  more  to  influence  his  masters 
by  assuring  them  he  was  not  calculated  for 
the  dry  study  of  jurispudence  he  was  suc 
cessful  only  in  obtaining  as  a  compromise. 


THE  PERMISSION  TO   EXCHANGE  MEDICINE 
FOR  LAW. 

After  passing  through  a  strict  course  of 
German  poetry,  he  commenced  a  translation 
of  Shakspeare,  by  Wieland. 

Hear  what  he  says  of  the  work: 
"  "When  I  first  grew  acquainted  with  this 
poet,  I  was  indignant  with  his  coldness — in 
dignant  with  the  insensibility  which  allowed 


JOHANX  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER.   17 

him  to  jest  and  sport  amid  the  highest  pathos. 
Led  by  my  knowledge  with  more  modern 
poets  to  seek  the  poet  in  his  works;  to  meet 
and  sympathize  with  his  heart;  to  reflect 
with  him  over  his  subject;  it  was  insufferable 
to  me  that  this  poet  gave  me  nothing  of  him 
self.  Many  years  had  he  my  entire  rever 
ence — certainly  my  earnest  study — before  I 
could  comprehend,  as  it  were, his  individuality. 
I  was  not  yet  fit  to  comprehend  nature  at 
first  hand."  Thus  in  study  and  cqntcmpla- 
tion  the  man's  mind  developed;  long  before 
the  genius  of  the  poet  manifested  itself.  But 
his  mental  thraldom  irritated  him;  his  proud 
spirit  chafed  with  indignation  at  the  re 
straints  and  conventionalities  which  surroun 
ded  him,  and  he  longed  to  be  free. 

The  elements  by  which  he  was  surrounded 
were  favorable  to  the  expansion  of  such  an 


18   JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER. 

intellect;  the  time  had  come  when  the  multi 
tude,  of  which  he  was  but  one,  desired  most 
earnestly  a  leading  mind  to  take  the  initia 
tive,  and  setting  aside  obsolete  codes,  address 
himself  to  men. 

In  Friederich  Schiller  they  had  found  such 
a  one,  and  can  we  wonder  that  whew  the 
Robbers  appeared,  by  its  wild  extravagance, 
its  turbulent  and  mad  upheavings,  its  in 
tense  earnestness,  was  stirred  the  depth  of 
the  Gorman  heart,  and  spreading  through 
inflammable  France,  rested  not  until  it  reach 
ed  the  passionless  shores  of  cold,  immovable 
England,  and  roused  to  thought  men  who  had 
been  considered  immobility  itself? 

They  beheld  in  Karl  Moor,  (the  hero  of  the 
ploy,;  one  whose  excess  of  virtue  or  exagge 
rated  nobleness,  drives  him  from  the  habita 
tion  of  men.  His  sympathy  with  the  poor 


JOHANX  CIIRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER.    19 

and  the  oppressed  renders  him  an  outcast  to 
society;  in  fine  he  is  the  martyr  of  his  own 
perfections.  While  the  popularity  of  this 
work  was  dazzling  with  the  masses,  its  rever 
sion  among  another  class  was  intense.  The 
Grand  Duke  forbade  him  to  write  any  more  po 
etry,  and  attend  to  medicine,  (he  had  recently 
been  appointed  surgeon  to  a  regiment,)  or,  if 
he  must  write,  submit  his  productions  to  the 
revision  of  a  critic.  Imagine  the  indignation 
of  Schiller!  He  writes  to  a  young  friend,  Karl 
Moser: — "  So  long  as  my  spirit  can  raise  itself 
to  be  free,  it  shall  bow  to  no  yoke."  Accord 
ingly  he  wrote  to  Freiherr  von  Dalberg,  a  noble 
man  intrusted  with  the  superintendence  of  the 
theatre  at  Manheim,  and  the  play  was  to  be  re 
modelled  for  the  stage.  Some  of  hisfriends  at 
the  same  time  assisted  him  in  publishing  a 
volume  of  lyrics  and  minor  poems,  many  of 
which  had  been  composed  some  time  since. 


20  JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER. 

The  success  of  the  Robbers  when  it  ap 
peared  on  the  stage  was  immense.  The  play 
lasted  five  hours.  His  audience  was  drawn 
from  far.  They  gathered  from  distant  cities, 
for  the  fiery  rebellion  of  thought  had  woke 
an  echo  which  could  not  be  suppressed.  By 
stealth,  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  house,  he 
witnessed  the  living  embodiment  of  his  own 
thoughts  and  passions,  and  from  that  time 
was  confirmed  in  his  determination  to  adopt 
the  vocation  to  which  his  genius  and  his  in 
clinations  pointed.  Another  severe  repri 
mand  from  the  Duke  determined  him  to  leave 
his  home;  to  fly  from  Stuttgard  and  throw 
himself  on  the  world.  He  confided  to  his 
mother  the  plans  for  his  escape.  Fortified  by 
her  blessings  and  her  prayers,  accompanied 
by  one  faithful  friend,  at  the  midnight  hour 
he  fled  from  the  Capital  of  Wurtemberg. 


.TOIIANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICII  SCHILLER.   21 

The  city  was  illuminated,  it  was  the  eve  of  a 
grand  fete,  and  by  the  brilliancy  he  could 
distinctly  point  out  the  home  of  his  parents. 
"  0,  meine  mutter  !  "  burst  from  his  lips  as  they 
wended  their  lonely  way.  From  this  time 
forward  his  fame  as  a  dramatic  poet  con 
tinued  to  increase;  he  found  many  difficulties 
in  the  way  of  his  advancement,  it  is  true ;  for 
some  time  the  Grand  Duke  continued  a  shp\v 
of  hostility  that  prevented  Dalberg  from 
affording  him  his  patronage;  but  this  at  length 
was  conquered;  his  manly  but  respectful  in 
dependence,  his  growing  fame,  the  sobering 
influences  of  time  secured  for  him  an  unmo 
lested  future. 

He  added  to  the  Robbers,  Fiesco,  Cabal 
and  Love,  Marie  Stuart,  Joan  of  Arc,  and 
other  dramas  of  less  thrilling  interest.  ITo 
was  received  with  much  distinction  at  court, 


22  JOHANN  CHRTSTOPH  FRTEDERICH  SCHILLER. 

and  the  dignity  of  councillor  was  conferred 
upon  him  by  the  Duke.  At  the  early  age 
of  twenty-six  his  name  had  become  a  house 
hold  word  in  Europe.  The  very  misfortunes 
of  his  early  life  had  had  an  ennobling  effect 
upon  his  manhood,  and  had  served  to  aug 
ment  the  genius  of  his  soul.  In  his  fortunate 
marriage  with  the  beautiful  Charlotte  von 
Lengefeld,  every  desire  of  his  heart  was 
satisfied.  To  borrow  her  sister's  pen,  (Ma 
dame  von  Wolzogen),  "  she  was  highly-  pre 
possessing,  both  in  form  and  face,  an  expres 
sion  of  the  purest  goodness  of  heart  animated 
her  features,  and  her  eye  beamed  only  truth 
and  innocence." 

A  few  months  after  his  marriage,  he  des 
cribes  his  happiness  thus  :  "  Life  is  quite  a 
different  thing  by  the  side  of  a  beloved  wife 
than  so  forsaken  and  alone,  even  in  summer 


JOHANN  CIUlISTOPn  FRIEDERICII  SCHILLER. 23 

I  think  my  very  youth  will  be  renewed;  an 
inward  poetic  life  will  give  it  me  again."  At 
this  time,  when  he  felt  the  pressing  necessity 
for  renewed  exertion,  to  enhance  the  comforts 
of  his  beloved  wife,  and  when  his  health 
seemed  unequal  to  the  demands  which  he 
made  upon  it,  came  a  letter  from  Prince  von 
Augustenburg  and  Count  Schimmelman,  from 
which  the  following  is  extracted :  "  We  en- 

f 

treat  you  to  receive  for  three  years  an  annual 
gift  of  a  thousand  dollars.  We  hear  that 
your  health  suffers  from  too  severe  an  appli 
cation.  Do  not  grudge  us  the  pleasure  of 
contributing  to  your  relief."  The  effect  of 
this  letter  on  the  high-minded  Schiller  may 
be  imagined.  The  title  of  Hofrath,  a  distinc 
tion  much  coveted,  had  been  bestowed  upon 
him  some  time  before.  He  was  no  longer  the 
friendless  stripling  —  the  exiled  wanderer. 


24  JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER. 

Present  one  evening  at  the  representation  of 
the  "Maid  of  Orleans,"  one  of  those  signal 
triumphs  awaited  him,  which  it  is  seldom  the 
fate  of  genius  to  receive.  His  biographer 
describes  it :  "  Scarce  had  the  drop  scene 
fallen  on  the  first  act,  than  the  house  re 
sounded  with  the  cry,  "Es  libe  Friedericli 
Schiller  !  "  The  cry  was  swelled  by  all  the 
force  of  the  orchestra.  After  the  perfor- 

N 

mance  the  whole  crowd  collected  in  the  broad 
place  before  the  theatre  to  behold  the  poet. 
Every  head  was  bared  as  he  passed  along ; 
while  men  lifted  their  children  in  their  arms 
to  show  the  pride  of  Germany  to  the  new 
generation,  crying  out :  "  That  is  he  !  that  is 
he  !  "  The  Emperor  of  Austria  acknowledged 
his  claims  by  conferring  on  him  a  title  of 
nobility.  He  was  not  elated  with  the  honor, 
and  said  to  a  friend  who  congratulated  him  : 


JOHAXN  CHRTSTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER.   25 

"It  pleases  Lolo  and  my  children."  His  Wal- 
lenstein,  one  of  his  later  productions,  bears 
the  impress  of  wonderful  research  and  pro 
found  beauty.  Goethe  compares  it  to  a  wine 
which  wins  the  taste  in  proportion  to  its  age. 
Schiller  had  now  become  the  national  poet  of 
Germany.  "  The  Lay  of  the  Bell,"  one  of 
his  beautiful  descriptive  poems,  followed  soon 
after  Wallenstein;  in  it  he  thus  describes  a 
mother : 

"Within  sits  another — 

The  thrifty  housewife, 
The  mild  one,  the  mother; 

Her  home  is  her  liie, 
In  its  circle  she  rules, 
And  the  daughters  she  schools; 

And  she  cautions  the  boys 
With  a  bustling  command, 
And  a  diligent  hand 

Employ'd  she  employs; 
Gives  orders  to  store, 
And  the  much  makes  the  more;" 


26   JOHAXN  CHRISTOPII  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER. 

Locks  the  chest,  and  the  wardrobe  with  lavender  smell 
ing, 

And  the  hum  of  the   spindle  goes   quick   through    tho 
dwelling; 

And  the    hoards    in    the    presses    well    polished    and 
full, 

The  snow  of  the  linen,  the  shine  of  the  wool, 

Blends  the  sweet  with  the  good,  and  from  call  and  en 
deavor, — rests  never ! 

From  this  enchanting  picture  we  turn  to 
another.  The  merry  peal  that  anon  ushered 
in  the  happy  bridal  morn,  is  sadly  changed, 
and — 

From  the  Steeplo 
Tolls  the  bell, 
Deep  and  heavy — 
The  death  knell. 

Guiding  with  dirge,  note  solemn,  sad  and  slow, 
To  the  last  home  eartlrs  weary  wanderers  know. 
It  is  that  worshiped  wife — 
It  is  that  faithful  mother ! 


JOHANN  OHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER.  27 

Whom  the  dark  prince  of  shadows  leads  benighted, 
From  that  dear  arm  where  oft  she  hung  delighted; 
Far  from  those  blithe  companions  born 
Of  her  and  blooming  in  their  morn; 
On  whom  when  couched  the  heart  above> 
So  often  looked  the  mother  love  I 

Ah!  rent  the  sweet  home's  union  band, 

And  never,  never  more  to  come — 
She  dwells  within  the  shadowy  land, 

Who  was  the  mother  of  that  home; 
How  oft  they  miss  that  tender  guide — 

The  care,  the  watch,  the  face,  the  mother 
And  where  she  sat  the  babes  beside. 

Sits  with  unloving  looks — another ! 

It  was  said  that  Schiller's  career  was  one 
education,  and  this  is  essentially  true  ;  hence 
the  contrast  between  his  early  and  his  later 
works,  that  wild  revolutionary  spirit  became 
moulded  and  subdued  by  the  sagacious  dic 
tates  of  wisdom  and  experience. 


28  JOHANN  CHEISTOPH  FEIEDEEICH  SCHILLER. 

Friendship,  love,  assured  sympathy — all 
served  to  enrich  his  mind  and  to  mature  into 
perfection  his  wonderful  gifts.  As  a  histo 
rian  and  philosophical  writer  he  ranked  high. 
Hear  what  Carlyle  says  :  "  There  never  has 
been  in  Europe  another  course  of  history 
sketched  out  on  principles  so  magnificent 
and  philosophical."  He  says  again:  "His 
'^Esthetic  Letters '  are  the  deepest  and  most 
compact  pieces  of  reasoning  he  is  anywhere 
acquainted  with."  But  alas !  when  the  whole 
of  Europe  rung  with  his  fame,  the  seeds  of 
disease  were  shortening  that  precious  life; 
his  intellectual  activity  admitted  no  repose, 
while  his  body  was  worn  to  a  shadow;  his 
mind  grew  more  and  more  resolved  on  action, 
to  thwart  him  in  this  was  to  take  away  the 
charm  of  his  existence;  as  his  life  neared 
its  close,  his  meditations  on  life,  nature  and 


JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER.  29 

eternal  providence  deepened.  "  Christian 
ity,"  he  said  to  his  devoted  sister-in-law,  "  has 
stamped  a  new  impression  on  humanity, 
while  it  revealed  a  sublime  prospect  to  the 
soul."  Schiller  was  stricken  with  his  mortal 
sickness  on  the  28th  of  April,  1805;  he 
lingered  till  the  8th  of  May,  in  that  state  of 
exhaustion  which  seemed  to  preclude  all  hope. 
In  the  decline  of  that  day  came  on  the  last 
struggle.  His  heart-broken  wife  knelt  by  his 
side,  he  pressed  her  hand,  when  suddenly  a 
nervous  tremor  came  over  his  frame,  the 
head  fell  back,  a  sweet  smile  lit  up  his  pale 
face,  the  world  passed  away,  and  in  its  place 
was  revealed  to  him  the  deep  unfathomable 
mysteries  of  another. 

Of  the  poems  of  Schiller,  those  on  the 
elements  rank  among  the  first,  perhaps  equal 
to  them  in  beauty  and  perspecuity  is  Ru- 


30   JOIIANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER. 

dolpli  of  Hapsburg.  Its  design  is  to  depict 
the  virtue  of  humility.  The  story  is  taken 
from  an  old  Swiss  chronicle,  and  Hienrich 
says:  "The  poet  has  adhered  with  much 
fidelity  to  the  original  narrative." 

At  Aachen  in  imperial  state, 

In  that  time-hallow'd  hall  renown'd, 

At  solemn  feast  King  Rudolph  sate, 
The  day  that  saw  the  hero  crowned; 

Bohemia  and  thy  Palgrave  Rhine, 
Give  this  the  feast,  and  that  the  wine— 
The  arch  electoral  seven ! 

Like  choral  stars  around  the  sun, 

Gird  him  whose  hand  a  world  has  won— 
The  anointed  choice  of  heaven! 

In  galleries  raised  above  the  pomp, 
Pressed  crowd  on  crowd  their  panting  way; 

And  with  the  joy  resounding  tromp, 
Rang  out  the  millions'  loud  huzza; 


JOE  ANN  CHEISTOPII  FIUEDERIOH  SCHILLER.   31 

For  closed  at  last  the  age  oT  slaughter, 
"When  human  blood  was  pour'd  as  water, 

Law  dawns  upon  the  world ! 
Sharp  force  no  more  shall  right  the  wrong, 
And  grind  the  weak  to  crown  the  strong 

War's  curnage  flag  is  furled. 

In  Rudolph's  hand  the  goblet  shines, 

And  gayly  round  the  board  looked  he, 
And  proud  the  feast  and  bright  the  wines, 

My  kingly  heart  feels  glad  to  me; 
Yet  where  the  gladness-bringcr,  blessed 
In  the  sweet  art  which  moves  the  breast, 

With  lyre  a'  .d  verse  divine. 
Dear  from  my  youth,  the  craft  of  song, 
And  what  as  knight  I  loved  so  long, 
As  Kaisar,  still  be  mine ! 

Lo !  from  the  circle  bending  there, 
With  sweeping  robe  the  Card  appears, 

As  silver  white  his  gleaming  hair. 
Bleached  by  the  many  winds  of  years; 


32   JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FPJEDEEICH  SCHILLEE. 

And  music  sleeps  in  golden  strings, 
Love's  rich  reward,  the  minstrel  sings, 

Well  known  to  him— the  all! 
High  thoughts  and  ardent  souls  desire, 
What  would  the  Kaisar  from  the  lyre, 

Amid  the  banquet-hall? 

The  great  one  smiled, — "  not  mine  the  sway — 

The  minstrel  owns  a  loftier  power; 
A  mightier  king  inspires  the  lay — 

Its  best — the  impulse  of  the  hour ! 
As  through  wide  air  the  tempests  sweep, 
As  gush  the  springs  from  mystic  deep, 

Or  lone,  untrodden  glen; 
So  from  dark,  hidden  fount  within, 
Comes  song  its  own  wild  world  to  win — • 
Amid  the  souls  of  men." 

Swift  with  the  fire  the  minstrel  glowed, 
And  loud  the  music  swept  the  ear; 

Forth  to  the  chase  a  hero  rode, 
To  hunt  the  chamois    deer. 


JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDEEICH  SCHILLER.   33 

With  shaft  aud  horn,  the  squire  behind, 
Through  greensward  meads,  the  riders  wind, 

A  small,  sweet  bell  they  hear. 
Lo !  with  the  host,  a  holy  man, 
Before  him  strides  the  sacrestan, 

And  the  bell  sounds  near  and  near. 

The  noble  hunter,  down  inclined 
His  reverent  head,  and  softened  eye, 

And  honored  with  a  Christian's  mind 
The  Christ  who  loves  humility. 

Loud  through  the  pasture  brawls  and  raves 

A  brook — the  rains  had  fed  the  waves, 
And  torrents  from  the  hill. 

His  sandal  shoon  the  priest  unbound, 

And  laid  the  host  upon  the  ground, 
And  neared  the  swollen  rill. 

"What  wouldst  thou,  priest?"  the  count  began, 

As  marveling  much,  he  halted  there; 
"  Sir  count,  I  seek  a  dying  man, 

Sore — hungering  for  the  heavenly  fair. 

8 


34  JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  PRIEDERICH  SCHILLEB. 

The  bridge  that  once  its  safety  gave, 
Rent  by  the  anger  of  the  wave — 

Drifts  down  the  tide  below. 
Yet  barefoot  now,  I  will  not  fear 
(The  soul  that  seeks  its  God  to  cheer) 

Through  the  wild  wave  to  go." 

He  gave  that  priest  the  knightly  steed, 
He  reached  that  priest  the  lordly  reins, 

That  he  might  serve  the  sick  man's  need. 
Nor  slight  the  task  that  Heaven  ordains, 

He  took  the  horse  the  squire  bestrode, 

On  to  the  chase  the  hunter  rode, 
On  to  the  sick  the  priest; 

And  when  the  morrow's  sun  was  red, 

The  servant  of  the  Saviour  led 
Back  to  its  lord  the  beast. 

"_Now  Heaven  forefend ! "  the  hero  cried, 
"  That  ere  to  chase  or  battle  more, 

These  limbs  the  sacred  beast  bestride 
That  once  my  Maker's  image  bore. 


JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER.   35 

If  not  a  boon  allowed  to  thee, 
Thy  Lord  and  mine  its  master  be — 

My  tribute  to  the  King ! 
From  whom  I  hold  as  fiefs  since  birth, 
Honor,  renown,  the  goods  of  earth — 

Life  and  each  living  thing. 

"So  may  the  God  who  faileth  never 

To  hear  the  weak  and  guide  the  dim, 
To  thee  give  honor,  here  and  ever, 
As  thou  hast  duly  honored  Him. 
Far-famed  e'en  now  through  Swisserland, 
Thy  generous  heart  and  dauntless  hand, 

And  fair  from  thine  embrace, 
Six  daughters  bloom,  six  crowns  to  bring, 
Blessed  as  the  daughters  of  a  king — 

The  mothers  of  a  race." 

The  mighty  Kaiser  heard  amazed, 

His  heart  was  in  the  days  of  old, 
Into  the  minstrel's  heart  he  gazed, 

That  tale  the  Kaiser's  own  had  told; 


36  JOHAKST  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER. 

Yet  in  the  bard,  the  priest  he  knew, 
And  in  the  purple  veiled  from  view, 

The  gush  of  holy  tears, 
A  thrill  through  that  vast  audience  ran, 
And  every  heart  the  God-like  man 

Revering  God-reveres. 


The  "Diver,"  although  one  of  his  first 
ballads,  is  said  to  be  quite  as  grand  and 
artistic  as  those  elaborated  by  his  riper 
genius.  A  critical  writer  calls  it  a  lyrical 
tragedy  in  two  acts,  the  first  act  ending 
with  the  disappearance  of  the  hero  amid 
the  whirlpool;  and  the  conception  of  the 
contest  of  man's  will  with  physical  nature, 
together  with  the  darkly  hinted  moral  not 
to  stretch  too  far  the  mercy  of  Heaven, 
belong  in  themselves  to  the  design  and 
ethics  of  tragedy. 


JOHANN  CHEISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER.   37 

He  says,  according  to  the  just  theory, 
the  main  ingredient  of  terror  is  the  un 
known.  He  here  seeks  to  accomplish  as  a 
poet  what  he  before  perceived  as  a  critic, 
and  certainly  the  picture  of  the  lonely 
diver  amid  the  horrors  of  the  abyss,  dwells 
upon  the  memory  among  the  sublimest  con 
ceptions  of  modern  poetry.  The  line,  "And 

it  bubbles  and  seethes,  and  it  hisses  and 
roars,"  struck  Goethe  in  a  particular  man 
ner,  from  the  power  evinced  in  reflecting 
truth,  though  unfamiliar  to  experience. 
Schiler  had  never  seen  a  waterfall. 

Bulwer  tells  us  that  Schiller  modestly 
owns  his  obligation  to  Homer's  description 
of  Charybdis. 


38  JOHANN  CHKISTOPH  FKIEDERICH  SCHILLER. 


THE    DIVER. 


"  Oh !  where  is  the  knight  or  the  squire  so  bold, 
As  to  dive  to  the  howling  Charybdis  below? 

I  cast  in  the  whirlpool  a  goblet  of  gold, 
And  o'er  it  already  the  dark  waters  flow; 

Whoever  to  me  may  the  goblet  bring, 

Shall  have  for  his  guerdon  that  gift  of  his  king." 

He  spoke,  and  the  cup  from  the  terrible  steep, 
That,  rugged  and  hoary,  hung  over  the  verge 

Of  the  endless  and  measureless  world  of  the  deep. 
Twirl'd  into  the  maelstrom  that  maddened  the  surge. 

"And  where  is  the  diver  so  stout  to  go — 

I  ask  ye  again — to  the  deep  below  ? " 

And  the  knights  and  the  squires  that  gather'd  around, 
Stood  silent,  and  fixed  on  the  ocean  their  eyes; 


JOHANX  CIIRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER.   39 

They  look'd  on  the  dismal  and  savage  profound, 

And  the  peril  chilled  back  every  thought  of  the  prize, 
And  thrice  spoke  the  monarch,  "  The  cup  to  win, 
Is  there  never  a  wight  who  will  venture  in?" 

And  all  as  before  heard  in  silence  the  king — 
Till  a  youth,  with  an  aspect  unfearing,  but  gentle, 

Mid  the  tremulous  squires,  stepp'd   out  from  the  ring. 
Unbuckling  his  girdle,  and  doffing  his  mantle; 

And  the  murmuring  crowd,  as  they  parted  asunder, 

On  the  stately  boy  cast  their  looks  of  wonder. 

As  he  strode  to  the  marge  of  the  summit,  and  gavo 
One  glance  on  the  gulf  of  that  merciless  main; 

Lo !  the  wave  that  forever  devours  the  wave, 
Casts  roaringly  up  the  Charybdis  again; 

And,  as  with  the  swell  of  the  far  thunder-boom, 

Rushes  foamingly  forth  to  the  heart  of  the  gloom. 

And  it  bubbles  and  seethes,  and  it  hisses  and  roars, 
As  when  fire  is  with  water  commix'd  and  contending; 


40  JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER. 

And  the  spray  of  its  wrath  to  the  welkin  up-soars, 
And  flood  upon  flood  hurries  on,  never  ending; 
And  it  never  will  rest,  nor  from  travail  be  free, 
Like  a  sea  that  is  laboring  the  birth  of  a  sea. 

Yet  at  length  comes  a  lull  o'er  the  mighty  commotion, 
As  the  whirlpool  sucks  into  black  smoothness  the  swell 

Of  the  white  foaming  breakers,  and  cleaves  through  the 
ocean 

A  path  that  seems  winding  in  darkness  to  Hell. 

Round  and  round  whirl'd  the  waves,  deep   and  deeper 
still  driven, 

Like   a  gorge   through  the  mountainous  main  thunder- 
riven  ! 

The  youth  gave  his  trust  to  his  Maker !  before 
That  path  through  the  riven  abyss  closed  again — 

Hark !  a  shriek  from  the  crowd  rang  aloft  from  the  shore, 
And  behold !  he  is  whirl'd  in  the  grasp  of  the  main ! 

And  o'er  him  the  breakers  mysteriously  roll'd, 

And  the  giant-mouth  closed  on  the  swimmer  so  bold. 

O'er  the  surface  grim  silence  lay  dark;  but  the  crowd 
Heard  the  wail  from  the  deep  murmer  hollow  and  fell; 


JOHANN  CHPJSTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER.   41 


They  iearken  and  shudder,  lamenting  aloud — 

"  Gallant  youth— noble  heart — fare  thee  well,  fare  theo 
well ! " 

More  hollow  and  more  wails  the  deep  on  the  car — 
More  dread  and  more  dread  grows  suspense  in  its  fear. 


If  thou  should'st  in  those  waters  thy  diadem  fling, 
And  cry,  "Who  may  find  it  shall  win  it  and  wear," 

God  wot,  though  the  prize  were  the  crown  of  a  king — 
A  crown  at  such  hazard  were  valued  too  dear; 

For  never  shall  lips  of  the  living  reveal 

What  the  deeps  that  howl  yonder  in  terror  conceal. 

Oh !  many  a  bark,  to  that  breast  grappled  fast, 
Has  gone  down  to  the  fearful  and  fathomless  grave; 

Again,  crash'd  together  the  keel  and  the  mast, 
To  be  seen,  toss'd  aloft,  in  the  glee  of  the  wave; 

Like  the  growth  of  a  storm  ever  louder  and  clearer, 

Grows  the  roar  of  the  gulf  rising  nearer  and  nearer. 

And  it  bubbles  and  seethes,  and  it  hisses  and  roars, 
As  when  fire  is  with  water  commix'd  and  contending; 


42  JOHAXN  CHEISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER. 

And  the  spray  of  its  wrath  to  the  welkin  up-soars, 
And  flood  upon  flood  hurries  on,  never  ending; 
And  as  with  the  swell  of  the  far  thunder-boom, 
Bushes  roaringly  forth  from  the  heart  of  the  gloom. 
*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

And  lo !  from  the  heart  of  that  far-floating  gloom, 
What  gleams  on  the  darkness  so  swan-like  and  white? 

Lo !  an  arm  and  a  neck,  glancing  up  from  the  tomb ! 
They  battle — the  man's  with  the  element's  might. 

It  is  he !  it  is  he !  in  his  left  hand  behold, 

As  a  sign,  as  a  joy,  shines  the  goblet  of  gold! 

And  he  breathed  deep,  and  he  breathed  long, 
And  he  greeted  the  heavenly  delight  of  the  day; 

They  gaze  on  each  other — they  shout  as  they  throng, 
"  He  lives ! — lo,  the  ocean  has  rendered  its  prey ! 

And  safe  from  the  whirlpool,  and  free  from  the  grave, 

Comes  back  to  the  daylight  the  soul  of  the  brave ! " 

And  he  comes  with  the  crowd  in  the  clamor  and  glee, 
And  the  goblet  his  daring  has  won  from  the  water, 


JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER.  43 

Ho  lifts  to  the  king  as  lie  sinks  on  his  knee: 

And   the  king  from  her  maidens   has  beckon'd    his 
daughter; 

She  pours  to  the  boy  the  bright  wine  which  they  bring, 
And  thus  spake  the  Diver :  "  Long  life  to  the  king ! " 

Happy  they  whom  the  rose-hues  of  daylight  rejoice, 
The  air  and  the  sky  that  to  mortals  are  given; 

May  the  horror  below  never  more  find  a  voice — 
Nor  man  stretch  too  far  the  wide  mercy  of  Heaven! 

Never  more — never  more  may  he  lift  from  the  sight 

The  veil  which  is  woven  with  Terror  and  Night ! 

"  Quick,  brightening  like  lightening,  it  tore  me  along, 
Down,  down,  till  a  gush  of  a  torrent,  at  play 

In  the  rocks  of  its  wilderness,  it  caught  me;  and  strong 
As  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  it  whirl'd  me  away. 

Vain,  vain  was  my  struggle — the  circle  had  won  me, 

Round  and  round  in  its  dance,  the  wild  elements  spun  me. 

"And  I  called  on  my  God,  and  my  God  heard  my  prayer, 
In  the  strength  of  my  neel,  in  the  gasp  of  my  breath, 


44  JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER. 

And  show'd  me  a  crag  that  rose  up  from  the  lair, 

And  I  clung  to  it,  nimbly,  and  baffled  the  death  1 
And  sale  in  the  perils  around  me,  behold 
On  the  spikes  of  the  coral  the  goblet  of  gold. 

"Below,  at  the  foot  of  that  precipice  drear, 
Spread  the  gloomy,  and  purple,  and  pathless  obscure ! 

A  silence  of  Horror  that  slept  on  the  ear, 
That  the  eye  more  appall'd  might  the  hour  endure! 

Salamander,  snake,  dragon,  vast  reptiles  that  dwell 
In  the  deep,  coil'd  about  the  grim  jaws  of  their  Hell. 

"Dark,  crawl 'd,  glided  the  unspeakable  swarms, 
Clamp'd  together  in  masses,  misshapen  and  vast; 

Here  clung  and  here  bristled  the  fathomless  forms, 
Here  the  dark,  moving  bulk  of  the  hammer-fish  passed; 

And  with  teeth  grinning  white,  and  a  menacing  motion, 

Went  the  terrible  shark — the  hyena  of  ocean. 

"There  I  hung,  and  the  awe  gather'd  icily  o'er  me, 
So  far  from  the  earth,  where  man's  help  there  was  none; 

The  one  human  thing,  with  the  goblins  before  me, 
Alone,  in  a  loneliness  so  ghastly — alone! 


JOHANN  CHEISTOPH  FRIEDERICH  SCHILLER.  45 

Fathom-deep  from  man's  eye  in  the  speechless  profound, 
Yvlth  the  death  of  the  main  and  the  monsters  around. 

"Methought,  as  I  gazed  through  the  darkness,  that  now 
It  saw — the  dread  hundred-limbed  creature — its  prey ! 

And  darted,  O  God!  from  the  far-flaming  bough 
Of  the  coral,  I  swept  on  the  horrible  way; 

And  it  seized  me,  the  wave  with  its  wrath  and  its  roar, 

It  seized  me  to  save — king,  the  danger  is  o'er! 

On  the  youth  gazed  the  monarch,  and  marvell'd;  quoth  he: 
"Bold  Diver,  the  goblet  I  promised  is  thine, 

And  this  ring  will  I  give,  a  fresh  guerdon  to  thee — 
Never  jewels  more  precious  shone  up  from  the  mine; 

If  thou'lt  bring  me  fresh  tidings,  and  venture  again, 

To  say  what  lies  hid  in  the  innermost  main ! " 

Then  out  spake  the  daughter  in  tender  emotion: 
"  Ah !  father,  my  father,  what  more  can  there  rest  ? 

Enough  of  this  sport  with  the  pitiless  ocean — 
He  has  served  thec  as  none  would,  thyself  hast  confess'd; 

If  nothing  can  shake  thy  wild  thirst  of  desire, 

Let  thy  knights  put  to  shame  the  exploit  of  the  squire !  " 


4.6  JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  PMEDERICH  SCHILLER. 

The  king  seized  the  goblet,  he  swung  it  on.  high, 
And  whirling,  it  fell  in  the  roar  of  the  tide; 

"But  bring  back  that  goblet  again  to  my  eye, 

And  I'll  hold  thee  the  dearest  that  rides  by  my  side; 

And  thine  arms  shall  embrace,  as  thy  bride,  I  decree, 

The  maiden  whose  pity  now  pleadeth  for  thec." 

In  his  heart,  as  he  listened,  there  leap'd  the  wild  joy, 
And  the  hope  and  the  love  through  his  eyes  spoke  in  fire, 

On  that  bloom,  on  that  blush,  gazed  delighted  the  boy; 
The  maiden,  she  faints  at  the  feet  of  her  sire ! 

Here  the  guerdon  divine,  there  the  danger  beneath; 

He  resolves !  to  the  strife  with  the  life  and  the  death  1 

They  hear  the  loud  surges  sweep  back  in  their  swell. 

Their  coming  the  thunder-sound  heralds  along ! 
Fond  eyes  yet  are  tracking  the  spot  where  he  fell, 

They  come,  the  wild  waters,  in  tumult  and  throng; 
Roaring  up  to  the  cliff,  roaring  back,  as  before, 
But  no  wave  ever  brings  the  lost  youth  to  the  shore. 


TO  M.  A.  D,  47 


TO    M.    A.    D. 

Not  wholly  dark  thy  present  lot, 

Though  joy  her  golden  wing  hath  furled, 

For  where  the  present  cannot  reach, 
Like  radiance  from  another  world, 

A  spirit  guides  of  potent  power, 
That  moulds  each  purpose  of  the  heart— 
The  memories  of  a  bygone  hour! 

Thy  bark  may  float  on  summer  seas, 

Or  lashed  by  furious  waves  be  driven; 
Alike  to  thee,  the  whirling  storm, 

Or  soft  and  gentle  breeze  of  even; 
Calmly  amid  the  ills  of  life, 

Nerved  for  the  strife  whate'er  it  be, 
The  venture  lost,  was  vantage  gained, 

Though  sad  the  dower  it  brought  to  thee. 


48  TO  M.   A.   D. 

Not  wholly  sad,  for  golden  gleams — 

Like  those  that  light  the  hills  at  eve, 
The  reflex  of  an  early  dream, 

Which  now  no  longer  can  deceive, 
Illumes  the  page  where  time  records 

His  measured  worth  of  smiles  and  tearaj 
For  seen  thro'  his  dissolving  glass, 

The  sadness  ever  more  endears. 

Then  let  us  gather  up  the  shreds, 

And  garner  up  the  golden  sheaves, 
For  every  blossom  of  the  past, 

A  soul  distilling  fragrance  leaves; 
Not  all  bereft,  for  these  are  thine, 

A  measured  boon  to  mortals  given — 
To  temper  joy,  to  chasten  woe, 

And  fit  the  wearied  soul  for  Heaven. 


SONG — DEDICATED   TO   FANNY.  49 


SONG. 
DEDICATED   TO   FANNY. 


Oh !  say  not  that  my  heart  forgets, 
Though  silent  years  have  fled, 

Since  thou,  my  first  and  early  love, 
AVert  numbered  with  the  dead. 

My  soul  has  kept  iir;  vigils  long, 
Through  scenes  of  joy  and  woe; 

One  yearning  thought  of  other  days, 
Pursues  where're  I  go. 

To  night  the  stars  are  looking   down 

Upon  the  summer  sea, 
And  I  am  thinking  of  the  time 

I  wandered,  love,  w'th  thee. 


50  SONG — DEDICATED  TO  FANNY. 

Oh !  sacred  past  of  buried  hopes, 
Your  mournful  memories  sweep, 

In  tender  echoes  through  my  soul, 
And  lone  aud  sad  I  weep. 


MISS  ADELAIDE   A.   PROCTOR,  51 


MISS  ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTOR. 

ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTOR,  the  daughter  of 
Barry  Cornwall,  of  whom  as  yet  the  world 
knows  so  little,  sends  us  a  memorial  of  her 
life  in  a  volume  of  poems,  so  exquisitely 
tender,  so  filled  with  beautiful  thoughts, 
that  it  is  a  difficult  task  to  select  one 
having  a  pre-eminence  over  another.  Like 
her  father,  she  possessed  an  easy  flow  of 
verse.  But  under  the  apparent  unconscious 
ness  of  critical  barriers  and  rules  of  diction, 
there  is  a  flowery  grace  and  a  captivating 
ease  that  charms  and  fascinates  the  reader; 
her  periods  are  so  musical,  her  imagery  so 


52  MISS   ADELAIDE   A.    PROCTOR, 

fine.  But  transcending  all  this,  her  subli 
mity  of  faith,  her  dependence  on  the  Great 
Father  is  so  apparent  that  we  seat  ourselves 
reverently  at  her  young  feet,  and  yield  to 
the  inspiration  which  falls  from  her  lips. 
A  few  extracts  from  "  The  Parting "  tells 
her  story  (of  a  deceived  but  not  broken 
heart)  so  truthfully  that  it  seems  like  a  key 
unlocking  the  innermost  recesses  of  her 
soul : 

"  "Without  one  bitter  feeling  let  xis  part; 
And  for  the  years  in  which  your  love  has  shed 
A  radiance  like  a  glory  round  my  head, 

I  thank  you,  yes,  I  thank  you  from  my  heart. 

"  I  thank  you,  and  no  grief  is  in  these  tearsj 
I  thank  you  not  in  bitterness  but  truth; 
For  the  fair  vision  that  adorned  my  youth 

And  glorified  so  many  happy  years, 


MISS   ADELAIDE   A.   PROCTOR.  53 

"  I  thank  you  that  your  hand  dashed  down  the  shrine 
Wherein  my  idol  worship  I  had  paid, 
Else  had  I  never  known  a  soul  was  made 

To  sorve  and  worship  only  the  Divine. 

"  I  thank  you  for  a  terrible  awaking, 
And  if  reproach  seemed  hidden  in  my  pain, 
And  sorrow  seemed  to  cry  on  your  disdain, 

Know  that  my  blessing  lay  in  your  forsaking, 

"  Farewell  forever !  now  in  peace  we  part, 
And  should  an  idle  vision  of  my  tears, 
Arise  before  your  soul  in  after  years, 

Remember  that  I  thank  you  from  my  heart." 

As  sentiment  is  the  characteristic  of 
Proctor,  so  it  is  remarkably  developed  in  his 
daughter,  with  this  great  difference  :  his 
portraiture  seems  almost  a  deification  of  a 
human  passion  ;  hers  are  always  held  in 
relationship  to  the  Great  Father.  That 
which  was  her  greatest  joy  becomes  her 


54       MISS  ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTOR. 

discipline.  She  bows  in  meek  submission  to 
the  chastening  rod  ;  calmly  and  even  hope 
fully  she  takes  up  the  cross,  feeling  and 
knowing  that  "  better  than  the  seen  lies 
hid,"  she  is  repaid,  a  light,  a  new  revela 
tion  of  beauty  breaks  upon  her  soul,  and 
she  says  : 

"  I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  Thou  hast  kept 

The  best  in  store. 
To  have  enough,  yet  not  too  much 

To  long  for  more; 
A  yearning  for  a  deeper  peace, 

Not  known  before. 

"I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  here  our  souls, 

Though  amply  blest, 
Can  never  find,  although  they  seek, 

A  perfect  rest — 
Nor  ever  shall  until  they  lean 

On  Jesus'  breast." 


MISS   A.   ADELAIDE  PROCTOR.  55 

* 

Poetry  is  said  to  be  capricious  in  its  alli 
ances,  giving  herself  alike  to  the  grave  and 
gay,  the  gentle  and  the  stern.  Though  this 
is  eminently  true,  yet  she  is  ever  constant 
to  the  phases  of  her  possessor.  She  echoes 
in  her  mirth  and  mourns  in  her  sorrow. 
She  weaves  her  fragments  and  conceits  for 
babyhood,  and  she  mourns  with  us  o'er  "  our 
dead."  Listen  to  the  following : 


"How  the  children  leave  us,  and  no  traces 
Linger  of  that  smiling  angel  band; 

Gone,  forever  gone,  and  in  their  places 
Weary  men  and  anxious  women  stand.- 


"Yet  we  have  some  little  ones  still  ours, 
They  have  kept  the  baby  smile  we  know, 

Which  we  kissed  one  day  and  hid  with  flowers 
On  their  dead  white  faces  long  ago. 


56  MISS  ADELAIDE   A.   PROCTOR. 

"  Only  the  dead  hearts  forsake  us  never; 

Death's  last  kiss  has  been  the  mystic  sign, 
Consecrating  love  cur  own  Ibrever, 

Crowning  it  eternal  and  divine." 

Again  she  gives  us  high  and  holy  truth 
in  language  of  added  efficacy  and  power. 
The  true  philosophy  of  life  is  couched  in 
the  following  : 

Sow  and  look  onward,  upward, 

Where  the  starry  light  appears, 
"Where,  in  spite  of  the  coward's  doubting, 

Or  your  own  heart's  trembling  fears, 
You  shall  reap  in  joy  the  harvest 

You  have  sown  to  day  in  tears." 

*    And  again : 

"  Pray,  though  the  gift  you  ask  for 

May  never  comfort  your  fears, 
May  never  repay  your  pleadings, 

Yet  pray,  and  with  hopeful  tears; 


MISS   ADELAIDE  A.   PROCTOR.  57 

And  an  answer  not  that  you  long  for, 

But  diviner  will  come  one  day, 
Your  eyes  are  too  dim  to  see  it, 

Yet  strive  to  watch  and  pray." 

"  Learn  that  each  duty  makes  its  claim 

Upon  one  soul:  not  each  on  all; 
How,  if  God  speaks  thy  brother's  name, 

Dare  thou  make  answer  to  the  call? 

"  The  greater  peril  in  the  strife, 
The  less  this  evil  should  be  done, 

For  as  in  battle  so  in  life, 
Danger  and  honor  still  are  one." 

Who  would  not  learn  from  such  an  evan 
gel  ?  It  was  said  of  Byron  :  "  that  in  seek 
ing  an  ocean  for  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
he  bore  all  hearts  along  in  the  rash  be 
wildering  emotion."  Adelaide  Proctor  bears 
us  not  along  but  upward.  She  nerves  us 


58  MISS   ADELAIDE    A.   PROCTOR. 

for  the  battle  of  life  with  lessons  wrung 
from  hor  own  heart's  experience.  She  lays 
bare  the  secret  wounds  of  her  soul,  to  show 
us  where  light  entered.  If  we  saunter  with 
her  through  flowery  dells  and  delicious 
groves,  she  allows  us  not  to  be  captivated 
by  the  mere  surroundings,  beautiful  as  they 
may  be.  Her  mind  evolves  an  idea,  a  com 
parison  or  a  moral.  Showing  these  are  but 
the  faintest  corruscations  of  that  light  di 
vine,  and  without  which  all-  is  nothing. 
And  yet  in  this  relationship  there  is  not 
sadness,  but  holy  and  submissive  faith. 

'Twas  hers 

"  To  drink  the  golden  spirit  of  the  day 
And  triumph  in  existence." 

Truly,  did    she   not    collect  the  shadows  of 


MISS  ADELAIDE    A.   PROCTOR.  59 

life  into   a    portentous    array?     She  might 
have  said 


"  Fresh  hopes  are  hourly  sown 
la  furrowed  brows.'7 


But  kindling   aspirations   they,    that    writo 
no  "wrinkles  on  the  soul. 

"  The    Requital,"  we  call  the    joy  of  our 
household  : 


"Loud  roared  the  tempest, 
Fast  fell  the  sleet ; 

A  little  child  angel 
Passed  down  the  street, 

With  trailing  pinions 
And  weary  feet 


60  MISS  ADELAIDE  A.   PEOCTOE. 

"The  moon  was  hidden, 
No  stars  were  bright, 

So  she  could  not  shelter 
In  Heaven  that  night, 
•  For  the  angel's  ladders, 

Are  rays  of  light. 


"She  beat  her  wings 
At  each  window  pane, 

And  pleaded  for  shelter, 
But  all  in  vain. 

Listen,  they  said, 
To  the  pelting  rain. 


"She  sobbed,  as  the  laughter 
And  mirth  grew  higher, 

Give  me  rest  and  shelter 
Beside  your  fire, 

And  I  will  give  you 
Your  heart's  desire. 


MISS   ADELAIDE  A.   PROCTOR.  61 

"The  Dreamer  sat  watching 

His  embers  gleam, 
While  his  heart  was  floating 

Down  hope's  bright  stream, 
So  he  wove  her  wailing 

Into  his  dream. 


"But  fiercer  the  tempest 
Rose   than  before, 

When  the  angel  paused 
At  an  humble  door, 

And  asked  for  shelter 
And  rest  once  more. 


"A  weary  woman, 
Pale,  worn  and  thin, 

With  the  brand  upon  her 
Of  want  and  sin, 

Heard  the  child  angel 
And  took  her  in. 


62  MISS  ADELAIDE  A.   PROCTOR. 

"  Took  her  in  gently, 

And  did  her  best 
To  dry  her  pinions, 

And  made  her  rest 
"With  tender  pity, 

Upon  her  breast. 

"When  the  eastern  morning 

Grew  bright  and  red, 
Up  the  first  sunbeam 

The  angel  fled; 
Having  kissed  the  woman 

And  left  her — dead." 

It  might  be  thought  a  difficult  task  for 
one  of  high  and  lofty  aspirations  to  suit 
herself  to  the  capacity  of  childhood,  but 
such  was  the  universality  of  Miss  Proctor's 
genius,  that  whether  we  consider  her  breath 
ing  strains  for  babyhood,  or  teaching  les 
sons  of  sublime  endurance  for  poor,  suffer 


MISS  A.   ADELAIDE  PROCTOR.  63 

ing  humanity,  we  must  still  accord  to  her 
the  homage  of  our  heartfelt  admiration. 
What  a  felicity  of  expression  do  we  find 
in  the  following  sweet  little  fragments: 

"Is  my  darling  tired  already, 

Tired  of  her  day  of  play ! 
Draw  your  little  stool  beside  me, 

Smoothe  the  tangled  hair  away. 
Can  she  put  the  logs  together 

Till  they  make  a  cheerful  blaze? 
Shall  her  blind  old  uncle  tell  her 

Something  of  his  youthful  days?" 

The  story  is  continued  with  all  the  win 
ning  sweetness  which  the  preface  indicates. 
Another : 

"Will  she  come  to  me,  little  Effie, 
Will  she  come,  in  my  arms  to  rest, 

And  nestle  her  head  on  my  shoulder 
While  the  sun  goes  down  in  the  west? 


64  MISS  ADELAIDE  A.   PEOCTOK. 

"I  and  Efiie  will  sit  together, 
All  alone  in  this  great  arm-chair. 

It  is  silly  to  mind  it,  darling, 
When  life  is  so  hard  to  bear. 


"  While  her  little  soft  arms  grow  tighter 
Round  my  neck  in  their  clinging  hold, 

Well — I  must  not  cry  on  your  hair,  dear, 
For  my  tears  might  tarnish  the  gold. 


"But  my  Effie  won't  reason,  will  she, 

Or  endeavor  to  understand  ? 
Only  holds  up  her  mouth  to  kiss  me, 

As  she  strokes  my  face  with  her  hand. 


'•'But  hark! — there  is  nurse  calling  Effie; 

It  is  bed-time,  so  run  away, 
And  I  must  go  back,  or  the  others 

Will  be  wondering  why  I  stay. 


MISS   ADELAIDE   A.   PROCTOR.  G5 

"So  good-night  to  ray  darling  Effie, 
Be  happy,  sweetheart,  and  grow  wise; 

There's  one  kiss  for  her  golden  ringlets, 
And  two  for  her  sleepy  eyes." 

The  style  of  the  above  is  very  much  like 
Mary"  Howitt's  "  My  Little  Minnie,"  only 
immeasurably  superior.  That  '  they  have 
a  fascination  for  children  I  can  answer,  for 
I  have  known  little  ones  to  perform  disa 
greeable  duties  with  alacrity  and  pleasure 
for  the  promise  that  mamma  would  read 
them  Miss  Proctor,  and  in  a  little  time,  sc 
much  are  those  poems  in  consonance  with 
their  tastes  and  feelings,  they  could  repeal 
them  readily  from  memory.  I  think  it  was 
Beranger  who  said:  "  I  care  not  who  writes 
the  sermons  of  a  nation,  so  I  may  give 
them  their  songs."  But  here  is  one  whc 
combines  both.  The  poem  of  Fidelis  con- 


MISS   ADELAIDE  A.   PROCTOR. 

tains  such  loyalty  to  friendship  and  memory 
that  I  cannot  forbear  inserting  some  pas 
sages: 

"You  have  taken  back  the  promise 

That  you  spoke  so  long  ago — 
Takea  back  the  heart  you  gave  me, 

I  must  even  let  it  go. 
Where  Love  once  has  breathed  Pride  dieth, 

So  I  struggled  but  in  vain, 
First  to  keep  the  links  together, 

Then  to  piece  the  broken  chain. 

"But  it  might  not  be — so  freely 

All  your  friendship  I  restore, 
And  the  heart  that  I  had  taken 

As  my  own  forever  more. 
No  shade  of  reproach  shall  touch  you, 

Dread  no  more  a  claim  from  me— 
But  I  will  not  have  you  fancy 

That  I  count  myself  as  free. 


MISS   ADELAIDE   A.   PROCTOR,  67 

"  I  am  bound  by  the  old  promise — 

What  can  break  that  golden  chain? 
Not  even  the  words  that  you  have  spoken, 

Or  the  sharpness  of  my  pain. 
Do  you  think,  because  you  fail  me, 

And  draw  back  your  hand  to  day, 
That  from  out  the  heart  I  gave  you, 

My  strong  love  can  fade  away? 

"It  will  live.    No  eyes  may  see  it 

In  my  soul  it  will  lie  deep, 
Hidden  from  all;  but  I  shall  feel  it 

Often  stirring  in  its  sleep. 
So,  remember,  that  the  friendship 

Which  you  now  think  poor  and  vain, 
Will  endure,  in  hope  and  patience, 

Till  you  ask  for  it  again." 

To  those  who  have  compromised  their 
fidelity,  these  beautiful  lines  must  be  a 
stinging  remorse.  The  consciousness  of 


68  MISS  ADELAIDE   A.   PROCTOR. 

wasted   affection    cannot  overcome   or  sub 
due  the  true  and  loyal  heart.     The  line 

"Where  Love  once  has  breathed  Pride  dieth," 

reveals  the   source  from    whence    magnan 
imity  draws  its  strength. 

Theodore  Tilton  says,  in  speaking  of  Mrs. 
Browning:  "Her  resemblance  to  other  poets 
in  style  and  thought  are  not  infrequent.''7 
As  one  evidence  he  gives  us  a  line  from 
"Lady  Geraldine:  " 

"  With  a  rushing  stir  uncertain,  in  the  air,  the  purple 
curta'n," 

as  like  a  line  in  "  Foe's  Raven: " 

"And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rust' ing  of  each  pur 
ple  curtain." 

These  duplicated  thoughts  we  often  find 
among  our  classic  writers.  But  we  are  now 


MISS   ADELAIDE   A.   PROCTOR.  69 

going  to  consider  a  case  where  the  analogy 
is  more  complete  —  where  plan,  incident, 
and  the  expression  of  sentiment  are  almost 
the  same.  I  allude  to  the  poem  of  '•  Enoch 
Arden,"  by  Tennyson,  and  the  "  Homeward 
Bound,"  by  Adelaide  Proctor.  In  both  the 
•story  is  similar.  The  hero  in  each  case 
leaves  wife  and  children  to  traverse  the 
trackless  ocean  —  one  is  cast  away  on  a 
desert  island,  the  other  off  the  "Red  Al 
giers,"  and  becomes  the  slave  of  the  "Black 
Moses  of  Barbary."  Enoch  Arden,  on  his 
lonely  isle,  dreams  of 

"The  babies,  their  babble,  Annie,  the  small  house, 
The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy  lanes, 
The  peacock,  yew  tree,  and  the  lonely  hall, 
The  horse  ho  drove,  the  boat  he  sold,  the  chill 
November  dawns,  and  dewy  glooming  downs, 
The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying  leaves, 
And  the  low  moan"  of  leaden-colored  seas.1' 


70  MISS  ADELAIDE    A.   PROCTOR. 

The  hero  in  "Homeward  Bound"  sees 


"A  fair  face,  but  pale  with  sorrow, 
With  blue  eyes  brimful  of  tears. 

And  the  little  red  mouth  quivering 
With  a  smile  to  hide  its  fears. 


"Then  I  saw,  as  night  grew  darker, 

How  she  taught  my  child  to  pray* 
Holding  its  small  hands  together, 

For  its  father  far  away; 
And  I  felt  her  sorrow  weighing 

Heavier  on  me  than  mine  own, 
Pitying  her  blighted  spring-time 

And  her  joy  so  early  flown." 

After  many  long  and  wearisome  years  both 
are  freed.  They  who  had  been  accounted 
dead  return  again  to  their  native  land. 
One  thus  describes  it: 


MISS   ADELAIDE  A.    PROCTOR.  71 

"It  was  evening  in  late  autumra, 

And  the  gusty  wind  blew  chill, 
Autumn  leaves  were  falling  round  me, 

And  the  red  sun  lit  the  hill. 

"She  was  seated  by  the  fire, 

In  her  arms  she  held  a  child, 
Whispering  baby  words  caressing, 

And  then  looking  up  she  smiled — 
Smiled  on  him  who  stood  beside  her, 

Oh,  the  bitter  truth  was  told! 
In  her  look  of  trusting  fondness 

I  had  seen  the  look  of  old. 

"Cut  she  rose  and  turned  towards  me, 

(Cold  and  dumb  I  waited  there,) 
With  a  shriek  of  fear  and  terror, 

And  a  white  face  of  despair. 
lie  had  been  an  ancient  comrade. 

Not  a  single  word  we  said, 
While  wo  gazed  upon  each  other, 

He  the  living :  I  the  dead. 


72  MISS  ADELAIDE  A.   PROCTOE. 

"Bitter  tears  that  desolate  moment, 

Bitter  tears  we  wept, 
We  three  broken  hearts  together, 

"While  the  baby  smiled  and  slept. 

"  Then  at  last  I  rose,  and  turning, 

Wrung  his  hand,  but  made  no  sign, 
And  I  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead, 

Once  more,  as  if  she  were  mine, 
Nothing  of  farewell  I  uttered, 

Save  in  broken  words  to  pray 
That  God  would  ever  guard  and  bless  her — 

Then  in  silence  passed  away." 

Enoch  Arden  nears  his  home: 

"His  eyes  upon  the  stone,  he  reached  the  home 
Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and  his  babes. 
In  those  far  seven  happy  years,  were  born; 
Bnt  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur  there, 
A  bill  of  sale  gleamed  through  the  drizzle,  crept 
Still  downward,  thinking  dead  or  dead  to  me; 
Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf  he  went, 
Seeking  a  tavern  which  of  old  he  knew." 


MISS   ADELAIDE  A.   PROCTOR.  73 

Here  Miriam  Lane,  not  knowing  him,  so 
brown  and  bowed,  tells  him  the  story  of 
his  house: 

"  How  Philip  (bis  old  friend)  put  his  little  ones  to  school, 

And  kept  them  in  it— his  long  wooing — 

Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage — the  birth 

Of  Philip's  child;  and  o'er  his  countenance 

No  shadow  past,  nor  motion;  any  one 

Regarding  well,  had  deemed  he  felt  the  tale 

Less  than  the  teller;  only  when  she  closed, 

Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and  lost; 

He,  shaking  his  grey  head  pathetically, 

Repeated,  muttering,  cast  away  and  lost; 

Again,  iu  deeper  inward  whispers — lost ! " 

Here  occurs  a  slight  divergence  in  the 
comparison.  Enoch  Arden  "does  not  leave 
forever,"  but  forms  the  resolution  in  his 
mind  to  remain  near  his  wife  and  children 
yet  never  let  them  know  of  his  return, 


74  MISS  ADELAIDE  A.   PROCTOR. 

satisfied  that  those   he   loved  were   happy 
in  their  ignorance  of  him: 

"  But  Enoch  yearned  to  see  her  face  again. 
If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 
And  know  that  she  is  happy  1 " 

The  thought  drives  him  forth.    And  Enoch 
saw 

"Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times, 

Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  upon  his  knees. 

And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a  girl, 

A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 

Fair-haired  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted  hand 

Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring, 

To  tempt  the  babe  who  reared  its  creasy  arms, 

Caught  at  and  ever  missed  it,  and  they  laughed. 

And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 

The  mother,  glancing  often  toward  her  babe, 

But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with  him, 

Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and  strong, 

And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for  he  smiled. 


HISS   ADELAIDE  A.   PROCTOR.  75 

"  Then  lie,  though  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him  all, 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than  things  heard, 
Staggered  and  shook,  holding  the  branch,  and  feared 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry 
Which  in  one  moment  like  the  blast  of  doom, 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the  hearth, 
Ann  thus  he  passed  and  died  unknown  to  all  save 
Miriam  Lane." 

"Whom  he  made  promise   never  to   divulge 
until  she  saw  him  dead. 

The  similarity  stops  not  here.  "We  find 
even  an  expression  analagous.  Philip  bears 
a  life-long  hunger  in  his  heart.  In  Home 
ward  Bound  "  the  hungry  longing  "  left  me. 

In  a  beautiful  little  poem,  called  "  Links 
with  Heaven,"  Miss  Proctor  has  given  us 
sentiments  and  ideas  which  betray  a  sym 
pathy  with  the  innate  feelings,  that  are 
difficult  to  conceive  in  one  who  could  write 


76  MISS  ADELAIDE  A.   PROCTOK. 

only  from  the  experience  of  another.  We 
are  inclined  to  ask  with  wonder,  from  what 
hidden  source  has  that  knowledge  been  ob 
tained,  which  enables  her  thus  powerfully 
to  pierce  the  deepest  chords  within  a 
mother's  heart?  From  her  maternal  tribu 
lation  she  raises  her  to  a  contemplation  of 
her  dear  one,  safely  sheltered  in  the  arms 
of  Jesus.  She  inspires  her  with  a  lofty 
ambition  to  be  worthy  of  her  little  child, 
whose  sublime  destiny,  now  accomplished, 
she  regards  only  as  a  disenthralled,  bea 
tified  spirit.  She  bids  her  listen  to  its 
sweet,  silver  tones  as  they  mingle  in  the 
choir  of  angels;  and  from  the  picture 
linned  so  faithfully  to  satisfy  the  mother 
yearning,  she  rises  strong  in  fortifying  grace 
to  bear  the  will  of  heaven,  even  though  it 
decree  the  rupture  of  her  dearest  house- 


HISS  ADELAIDE  A.   PROCTOR.  77 

hold  ties.  But  I  will  attempt  110  longer  a 
description  so  faint  and  imperfect,  but  give 
my  readers  an  opportunity  of  judging  for 
themselves: 

LINKS  WITH  HEAVEN. 

Our  God  in  Heaven,  from  that  holy  place, 
To  each  of  us  an  angel  guide  has  given; 

But  mothers  of  dead  children  have  more  grace — 
For  they  give  angels  to  their  God  and  Heaven. 

How  can  a  mother's  heart  feel  cold  or  weary, 
Knowing  her  dearer  self  safe,  happy,  warm? 

How  can  she  feel  her  road  too  dark  or  dreary, 
Who  knows  her  treasure  sheltered  from  the  storm  ? 

How  can  she  sin?  our  hearts  may  be  unheeding, 
Our  God  forgot,  our  holy  saints  defied; 

But  can  a  mother  hear  her  dead  child  pleading, 
And  thrust  those  little  angel  hands  aside? 


78  MISS  ADELAIDE  A.   PROCTOR, 

Those  little  hands  stretched  down  to  draw  her  ever 
Nearer  to  God  by  mother  love: — we  all 

Are  blind  and  weak,  yet  surely  she  can  never, 
With  such  a  stake  in  heaven,  fail  or  fall. 

She  knows  that  when  the  mighty  angels  raise 
Chorus  in  Heaven,  one  little  silver  tone 

Is  hers  forever,  that  one  little  praise, 
One  little  happy  voice,  is  all  her  own. 

We  may  not  see  her  sacred  crown  of  honor, 
But  all  the  angels  flitting  to  and  fro, 

Pause,  smiling  as  they  pass, — they  look  upon  her 
As  mother  of  an  angel  whom  they  know. 

One  whom  they  left  nestled  at  Mary's  feet, — 
The  children's  place  in  Heaven, — who  softly  sings 

A  little  chant  to  please  them,  slow  and  sweet, 
Or  smiling,  strokes  their  little  folded  wings; 

Or  gives  them  Her  white  lilies  or  Her  beads 
To  play  with: — yet,  in  spite  of  flower  or  song, 


MISS   ADELAIDE   A.    PROCTOR.  79 

They  often  lift  a  wistful  look  that  pleads 
And  asks  Her  why  their  mother  stays  so  long. 

Then  our  dear  Queen  makes  answer,  she  will  call 
Her  very  soon;  meanwhile  they  are  beguiled 

To  wait  and  listen  while  She  tells  them  all — 
A  story  of  Her  Jesus  as  a  child. 

Ah!  saints  in  Heaven  may  pray  with  earnest  will, 
And  pity  for  their  weak  and  erring  brothers; 

Yet  there  is  prayer  in  Heaven  more  tender  still, — 
The  little  children  pleading  for  their  mothers. 

Already  we  haye  observed  that  deep 
underlying  religious  sentiment  which  per 
vades  almost  every  emanation  from  Miss 
Proctor's  pen.  Let  her  mood  be  ever  so 
joyous,  her  vein  ever  so  cheerful,  she  never 
descends  to  frivolity.  Living  as  she  did, 
in  strict  conformity  to  the  faith  of  her 


80  MISS  ADELAIDE    A.   PROCTOR. 

deepest  and  most  fervent  convictions,  slio 
experiences  a  sweet  contentment — a  calm 
submission  among  the  many  checkered 
scenes  she  delineates.  Her  tone  is  always 
healthy;  if  she  describes  a  sorrow,  she  finds 
a  consolation.  Never  morbid,  while  admit 
ting  the  ills  of  life,  she  often  proves  them 
a  very  necessity  to  a  fuller  realization  of 
.happiness.  Her  sympathies  are  never  bar 
ren,  and  in  this  lies  the  secret  of  her  suc 
cess.  She  indeed  was  no  theorist;  by  the 
bed-side  of  the  poor  and  desolate  she  learn 
ed  their  woes  and  their  afflictions.  She 
could  relinquish  hours  of  social  enjoyment 
to  pass  them  in  the  haunts  of  poverty, 
alleviating  by  her  presence,  as  well  as  by 
her  purse,  the  hard  condition  of  those 
whom  Jesus  has  called  to  suffer  like  unto 
himself.  Without  this  intimate  acquaint- 


MISS   A.    ADELAIDE   PROCTOR.  81 

ance,  with  scenes  described,  could  she  ever 
have  penned  the  following  : 

"  THE  CRADLE  SONG  OF  THE  POOR." 

Hush !  I  cannot  bear  to  see  thce 

Stretch  thy  tiny  hands  in  vain; 
Dear,  I  have  no  bread  to  give  thee, 

Nothing,  child,  to  ease  thy  pain ! 
When  God  sent  thee  first  to  bless  me 

Proud  and  thankful  too  was  I; 
Now,  ray  darling,  I,  thy  mother, 

Almost  long  to  see  thee  die. 
Sleep,  my  darling,  thou  art  weary; 
God  is  good,  but  life  is  dreary. 

I  have  watched  thy  beauty  fading, 
And  thy  strength  sink  day  by  day, 

Soon  I  know  will  want  and  fever, 
Take  thy  little  life  away. 

Famine  makes  thy  father  reckless, 
Hope  has  left  both  him  and  me; 


82  MISS   ADELAIDE  A.   PROCTOR. 

"We  could  suffer  all,  my  baby, 
Had  we  but  a  crust  for  thee. 
Sleep,  my  darling,  thou  art  weary; 
God  is  good,  but  life  is  dreary. 

Better  thou  shouldst  perish  early, 

Starve  so  soon,  my  darling  one, 
Than  in  helpless  sin  and  sorrow 

Vainly  live  as  I  have  done. 
Better  that  thy  angel  spirit, 

"With  my  joy,  my  peace,  were  flown, 
Than  thy  heart  grow  cold  and  careless, 

Reckless,  hopeless,  like  my  own. 
Sleep,  my  darling;  thou  art  weary; 
God  is  good,  but  life  is  dreary. 

I  am  wasted,  dear,  with  hunger, 
And  my  brain  is  all  opprest, 

I  have  scarcely  strength  to  press  thee, 
"Wan  and  feeble,  to  my  breast. 

Patience,  baby,  God  will  help  us, 
Death  will  come  to  thee  and  me, 


MISS   ADELAIDE   A.   PROCTOR.  83 

He  will  take  us  to  His  Heaven, 

Where  no  want  or  pain  can  be. 
Sleep,  my  darling,  thou  art  weary; 
God  is  good,  but  life  is  dreary. 

Such  the  plaint  that,  late  r.nd  early, 

Did  we  listen,  we  might  hear 
Close  beside  us,— but  the  thunder 

Of  a  city  dulls  our  ear. 
Every  heart,  as  God's  bright  angel, 

Can  bid  one  such  sorrow  cease; 
God  has  glory  when  his  children 

Bring  his  poor  ones  joy  and  peace! 
Listen !  nearer,  while  she  sings, 
Sounds  the  fluttering  of  wings ! 

In  the  autumn  of  1860,  the  idea  was  con 
ceived  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Gilbert  of  opening 
a  night  refuge  in  his  parish.  This  great 
charity  won  the  entire  sympathy  of  Miss 
Proctor.  She  published,  for  the  benefit  of 


84.  MISS   ADELAIDE  A.   PROCTOR. 

this  much  needed  institution,  a  collection 
of  her  religious  and  other  poems.  She 
appeals  to  the  public  in  her  preface  most 
touchingly : 

"  A  shelter  through  the  bleak  winter 
nights — leave  to  rest  in  some  poor  shed — in 
stead  of  wandering  through  the  pitiless 
streets,  is  a  boon  we  could  hardly  deny  to 
a  starving  dog;  and  yet  we  have  all  known 
that  in  this  country,  in  this  town,  many 
of  our  miserable  fellow  -  creatures  were 
pacing  the  streets  through  the  long  weary 
nights,  without  a  roof  to  shelter  them,  with 
out  food  to  eat,  with  their  poor  rags  soaked 
in  rain,  and  only  the  bitter  winds  of 
Heaven  for  companions;  women  and  child 
ren  utterly  forlorn  and  helpless,  either 
wandering  about  all  night  or  crouching 


MISS   ADELAIDE   A.   PROCTOR.  85 

under  a  miserable  archway,  or,  worst  of 
all,  seeking  in  death  or  sin  the  refuge  denied 
them  elsewhere.  It  is  a  marvel  that  we 
could  sleep  in  peace  in  our  warm,  comfort 
able  homes  with  this  horror  at  our  very 
door." 

After  describing  quite  minutely  the  rules 
of  the  institution,  Avhich  are  conceived  in 
the  widest  spirit  of  charity,  she  concludes 
as  follows  : 

"We  all  meditate  long  and  often  on  the 
many  kinds  of  sufferings  borne  for  us  by 
our  Blessed  Redeemer;  but,  perhaps,  if  we 
consider  a  moment,  we  shall  most  of  us 
confess  that  the  one  we  think  of  least 
often — the  one  we  compassionate  least  of 
all — is  the  only  one  of  which  he  deigned 
to  tell  us  himse'f,  and  for  which  he  himself 


86  MISS   ADELAIDE   A.   PROCTOE. 

appealed  to  our  pity  in  the  Divine  com 
plaint, —  'the  foxes  have  holes,  and  the 
birds  of  the  air  have  nests,  but  the  Son 
of  Man  has  not  where  to  lay  His  head.'  " 

From  the  publication  above  referred  to 
but  two  poems  are  selected,  from  the  very 
fact  that  each  alike  possesses  the  claim  of 
intrinsic  beauty  and  merit.  A  Pagan  aph 
orism  says  :  "  Those  whom  the  Gods  love, 
die  young."  Christian  experience  is  the 
same;  how  often  our  dear  Lord  calls,  in 
their  extreme  youth,  the  beautiful,  the 
gifted,  the  sunlight  of  our  homes,  they  who 
have  been  with  us  so  short  a  time,  and  yet 
have  left  a  life-long  record.  Miss  Proctor 
was  surely  one  of  these;  long  and  tenderly  will 
she  be  mourned  by  her  many  friends  and  ad 
mirers,  Avhile  in  heart-felt  sorrow  they  deplore 
the  void  occasioned  by  her  early  death. 


ADELAIDE    A.   PROCTOR. 


87 


THE  ANGEL'S  BIDDING. 


Not  a  sound  is  heard  in  the  Convent — 

The  Vesper  Chant  is  sung, 
The  sick  have  all  been  tended, 
The  poor  nun's  toils  are  ended 

Till  the  Matin  bell  has  rung. 
All  is  still,  save  the  clock  that  is  ticking 

So  loud  in  the  frosty  air, 
And  the  soft  snow  falling  as  gently 

As  an  answer  to  a  prayer. 

But  an  angel  whispers,  "O  sister, 

You  must  rise  from  your  bed  to  pray- 
In  the  silent  deserted  chapel, 
You  must  kneel  till  the  dawn  of  day; 


88  ADELAIDE    A.   PROCTOR. 

For,  far  on  the  desolate  moorland, 
So  dreary,  and  bleak,  and  white, 

There  is  one,  all  alone  and  helpless, 
In  peril  of  death  to-night. 

''No  sound  on  the  moorland  to  guide  him, 

No  star  in  the  murky  air; 
And  he  thinks  of  his  home  and  his  loved  ones 

With  the  tenderness  of  despair; 
He  has  wandered  for  hours  in  the  snow-drift, 

And  he  strives  to  stand  in  vain, 
And  so  lies  down  to  dream  of  his  children, 

And  never  to  rise  again. 

"  Then  kneel  in  the  silent  chapel 

Till  the  dawn  of  to-morrow's  sun, 
And  ask  of  the  Lord  you  worship 

For  the  life  of  that  desolate  one; 
And  the  smiling  eyes  of  his  children 

Will  gladden  his  heart  again, 
And  the  grateful  tears  of  God's  poor  ones 

Will  fall  on  your  soul  like  rain ! 


ADELAIDE   A.    PROCTOR.  89 

"Yet  leave  him  alone  to  perish, 

And  the  grace  of  your  God  implore, 
With  all  the  strength  of  your  spirit, 

For  one  who  needs  it  more. 
Far  away,  in  the  gleaming  city, 

Amid  perfume,  and  song,  and  light, 
A  soul  that  Jesus  has  ransomed 

Is  in  peril  of  sin  to-night. 

"  The  temper  is  close  beside  him, 

And  his  danger  is  all  forgot. 
And  the  far-off  voices  of  childhood 

Call  aloud,  but  he  hears  them  not; 
He  sayeth  no  prayer,  and  his  mother — 

He  thinks  not  of  her  to-day, 
And  he  will  not  look  up  to  Heaven, 

And  his  angel  is  turning  away. 

"Then  pray  for  a  soul  in  peril — 

A  soul  for  which  Jesus  died: 
Ask  by  the  cross  that  bore  Him, 

And  by  her  who  stood  beside; 


90  ADELAIDE   A.    PROCTOR. 

And  the  angels  of  God  will  thank  you, 
And  bend  from  their  thrones  of  light, 

To  tell  you  that  Heaven  rejoices, 
At  the  deed  you  have  done  to-night." 


ADELAIDE   A.   PROCTOR.. 


91 


OUR   TITLES. 


Are  we  not  Nobles — we  who  trace 

Our  pedigree  so  high, 
That  God,  for  us  and  for  our  race, 

Created  Earth  and  Sky,   . 
And  Light,  and  Air,  and  Time,  and  Space, 

To  save  us  and  then  die? 

Are  we  not  Princes — we  who  stand 

As  heirs  beside  the  Throne; 
We  who  can  call  the  promised  land 

Our  Heritage,  our  own; 
And  answer  to  no  less  command,- 

Than  God's,  and  His  alone? 

Are  we  not  Kings  ?  both  night  and  day, 
From  early  until  late, 


92  ADELAIDE   A.    PROCTOR. 

About  our  bed,  about  our  way, 

A  guard  of  Angels  wait; 
And  so  we  watch,  and  work,  and  pray, 

In  more  than  royal  state. 

'Are  we  not  holy?  Do  not  start; 

It  is  God's  sacred  will, 
To  call  us  temples  set  apart, 

His  Holy  Ghost  may  fill 
Our  very  food — 0  hush !  my  heart, 

Adore  it -and  be  still! 

Are  we  not  more?  our  life  shall  be 

Immortal  and  divine, 
The  nature  Mary  gave  to  Thee, 

Dear  Jesus,  still  is  thine; 
Adoring  in  thy  heart  I  see 

Such  blood  as  beats  in  mine. 

O  God,  that  we  can  dare  to  fail, 
And  dare  to  say  we  must; 

0  God,  that  we  can  ever  trail 
Such  banners  in  the  dust; 


ADELAIDE   A.    PROCIOR.  93 

Can  let  such  starry  honors  pale, 
And  such  a  blazon  rust! 

Shall  we  upon  such  titles  bring 

The  taint  of  sin  and  shame? 
Shall  we  the  children  of  the  King, 

Who  hold  so  grand  a  claim, 
Tarnish  by  any  meaner  thing 

The  glory  of  our  name  ? 


94  IN    MEMORIAM. 


They  are  not  dead — my  darlinga- 
They  meet  me  at  the  door, 

The  patter  of  their  little  feet 
Is  sounding  from  the  floor. 

The  rustle  of  their  garments  soft, 
The  tones  that  murmuring  fell, 

In  cadence  sweet,  upon  my  ear, 
Forbid  a  last  farewell. 

Oh!  many  are  the  fancies 
That  still  my  heart  beguile, 

While  reason  sleeps,  they  enter, 
And  cheat  iny  love  the  while. 


IN   MEMORIAM.  95 

Sometimes  I  am  returning 

From  a  little  absence — long 
To  the  dear  ones  who  are  watching 

For  their  mother's  safe  return. 

I  see  them  far  off,  coming, 

And  half  I  bend  to  meet; 
The  Welcome,  soft  and  tender, 

That  was  ever  mine  to  greet. 

First  of  all,  my  darling  Mary, 
With  her  bright  and  happy  brow; 

The  sunlight  of  her  beauty 
Is  beaming  on  me  now. 

And  by  her  side  another, 

With  his  wealth  of  golden  hair; 
I  can  see  his  sunny  ringlets 

Tossing  wildly  ia  the  air. 

Alas!  it  is  but  dreaming, 
My  darlings  are  at  rest; 


96  IN  MEMORIAM. 

But  the  mother-heart  is  yearning 
To  fold  them  to  her  breast. 

Oh !  my  heart  is  full  of  memories, 
Mine  eyes  are  full  of  tears; 

God  only  knows  the  anguish, 
'Mid  the  calmness  which  appeara. 


THE  AXGEL  OF  MY  WEARY  HOUR.    97 


THE  ANGEL  OF  MY  WEARY  HOUR. 

TO  SARAH  MARIE. 

4 

An  angel  strayed  from  Eden's  bowers, 
Nor  found  again  its  home  so  dear; 

For  wandering  near  this  world  of  ours, 
With  trembling  wing  and  heart  of  fear — 

It  chanced  upon  our  parent  cot, 
At  the  sweet  hour  of  eventide; 

Our  little  ones— a  circle  sweet — 
Were  gathered  to  the  mother  side. 

With  raised  eyes  and  clasped  hands, 
Their  hearts  went  in  one  choral  strain, 

Oh!  God  protect  our  father  dear, 
And  bring  him  safely  back  again. 


98    THE  ANGEL  OP  MY  WEARY  HOUR. 

Then  as  that  prayer  of  love  went  up, 
Like  incense  on  the  floating  air, 

The  angel  downward  bent  his  wing, 
And  found  a  home  amid  them  there. 

Now  closely  folded  to  mj?  breast, 
From  morn  till  evening's  dewy  hcur, 

I  clasp  this  solace,  warm  and  close, 
The  angel  of  my  weary  hour. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL,  99 


THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


The  beautiful  is  round  us,  where'er  we  chance  to  stray, 

By  nature's  silvery  fountain,  where  its  gleaming  waters 
play; 

In  the  rustling  of  the  forest  leaf,  in  the  flower  lips  of 

the  sod, 
In  all  the  speech-like  eloquence  that  telleth  us  of  God. 

The  beautiful  is  round  us  in  the  morning's  early  beam, 

When  it  lifts  the  shadowy  mantle  from  the  hill-tops  lone 
and  green; 

And  when  the  night  unfoldeth  its  glories  to  our  view, 
The  beautiful  comes  mingled  with  the  infinite  and  true. 


In  the  spring-time's   early  breath,  in   the  summer's  fer 
vid  beam, 

In  the   dancing   of  the   zephyrs,    the   sparkle    on   the 
stream, 


100        •  THE   BEAUTIFUL. 

In  the  russet  robe  of  autumn,  its  crimson  and  its  gold, 
In  the  jewels  icy  winter  hangs  on  her  forehead  old. 

The  beautiful,  the  beautiful  comes  with  its  promptings 
pure, 

And  telleth  us  of  glories  which  ever  shall  endure; 

For  it  whispers,    as    it  passes,   earth's  brightest  trea 
sure  known 

Is  but  a  shado-w  faint  and  weak  from   God's  celestial 
throne. 


THE  OLD   COTTAGE.  101 


THE    OLD     COTTAGE 


DEDICATED   TO   L.   K. 


Beneath  the  ancient  roof-tree,  beneath  these  lowly  walls, 
What  recollections  of  the  past  my  memory  recalls; 

The   bounding   step    of  childhood,  its  wild  and  merry 
glee, 

The  sobered  tread  of  manhood,  all  found  a  home  in 
thee 


The  holy  joy  of  motherhood,  the  pang  of  parting  breath, 

The  farewell  sad,  the  meeting  fond,  and  tha  bitter  wail 
of  death, 

Have  each  been  felt  and  known  here,  in  days  now  past 
and  gone; 

But  their  memory  is  recorded  in  the  old  hearth  stone. 


102  THE  OLD   COTTAGE. 


Oh!   many  a    fervid  blessing  from  mother's  lips  were 
shed, 

As  heart  to  hsart  in  fervent  love  the  dear  good  night 
was  said; 

Those  lingering  voices  of  the  past  once  in  this  quaint 
old  room 

Discoursed  their  tones  of  joyful  love,  a  soul-dispelling 
gloom. 


In  other  homes  we  find  them,  this  once  dear  household 
band, 

While  she,  the  fond  and  loving,  "  a  mother  in  the  land," 
Renews  the  love  of  olden  time  as  every  added  face 

Bespeaks   a   well-accorded    claim,   the   children   of  her 
race. 

Then  sacred  be  the  memories  of  this  old  cottage  home, 

Her  sons  will  not  forget  them,  though  distant  far  they 
roam; 

For  when  the  soul  grows  weary  with  the  changeful  and 

the  new, 
Here  shall  they  find  those  golden  links,  the  faithful  and 

the  true. 


TO    J.   C.  G.  103 


TO    J.   C.    G. 


I  know  you  in  your  halt'  disguise, 
And  J.  C.  G.  will  ever  blend 

With  those  dear  memories  of  the  past 
That  bind  me  to  my  absent  friend. 

I  greet  you  with  my  pen  and  ink, 
And  say  a  loving  "  How  d'ye  do  ?  " 

And  wish  that  you  with  me  could  look 
Upon  the  Sound  so  clear  and  blue. 

The  white  sails  o?er  the  waters  bend, 
The  swallows  skim  along  the  sea; 

The  air  is  trembling  with  the  sound 
Of  nature's  gushing  melody. 


104:  TO     J.    C.    G. 

Familiar  grown,  the  robins  come 
To  pick  the  crumbs  close  by  the  door, 

Then  with  their  trilling  roundelay 
They  thank  us  for  the  daily  store. 

'Mid  scenes  like  these  the  heart  grows  young, 
Renews  its  youth  from  nature's  spring, 

Nor  craves  one  other  wish  beyond 
The  simple  pleasures  which  she  brings. 

A  poet*  that  I  like  to  con, 
Who  in  his  day  won  much  renown, 

Proclaimed  aloud  the  simple  truth: 
"God  made  the  country — man  the  town." 

Here  come  the  children  from  the  woods, 
(The  angel  band  you  used  to  say,) 

Whose  kindling  smiles  and  merry  moods 
Could  fill  your  heart  with  love  alway. 

With  their  return,  I  say  farewell ! 
My  busy  pen  can  chat  no  more; 
I  must  away,  but  ere  I  go, 

Believe  me,  yours  for  ever  more. 
*Cowper. 


SILVER  LAKE — RYE.  105 


SILVER    LAKE— RYE. 


Silver  Lake,  in  thy  calm  beauty, 
Dewy  twilight  spreads  her  glow; 

Crimson  tipped,  her  pencil  lingers 
For  the  moon's  effulgent  flow. 


In  thy  depths  and  on  thy  bosom 
Softened  shadows  sweetly  lie, 

Circling  shore,  fair  verdant  islets, 
And  the  Heaven-reflected  sky. 

On  thy  waves,  in  sportive  beauty, 
Sails  the  swan  in  queenly  pride, 

Dipping  now  her  graceful  plumage, 
Breasting  then  a  rushing  tide. 


106  SILVER  LAKE — RYE. 

Deeper,  duskier  grow  the  shadows, 
Limned  against  the  evening  sky; 

Dome-like  towers  and  slender  spires 
Seem  to  meet  the  charmed  eye. 

While  our  boat  is  swiftly  gliding 
O'er  the  waters  soft  and  clear, 

Music,  with  its  softened  cadence, 
Floats  upon  the  listening  ear. 

By  the  silver  chime  of  waters, 
We  are  near  the  quaint  old  mill; 

While  I  tell  you  of  its  story, 
Let  our  boat  float  at  its  will. 

Years  ago,  perchance  one  hundred, 
Three  men,  crippled,  so  they  say, 

Built  these  sides,  so  old  and  hoary, 
Which  you  look  on  every  day. 

But  the  autumn  mists  are  falling, 
And  tbe  moon  is  riding  high, 


SILVER   LAKE— RYE.  107 

Glimmering  lights  amid  the  foliage 
Tell   me  that  our  home  is  nigh. 

• 
So  farewell!  sweet  lake  of  beauty, 

I  would  ever,  ever  glide 
On  thy  pure,  translucant  bosom, 
With  my  dear  ones  at  my  side. 


108  TO  AN   ABSENT   CHILD. 


TO    AN    ABSENT    CHILD. 


"Good  night!  God  bless  you  mammal 
Good  night!  my  mamma  dear!" 

Those  oft-repeated  tender  worda 
Still  linger  on  my  ear. 


And  for  one  moment  I  forget 
My  darling  is  away, 

Nor  heeds  the  mother  longing 
That  fills  my  heart  to-day. 


How  oft  my  book  was  laid  aside, 
My  work  flung  from  my  knee. 

While  with  a  bounding  step  I  flew, 
At  anxious  call  from  thee. 


TO  AN  ABSENT   CHILD.  109 

Ah !  then  I  learnt  the  pretext 

That  brought  me  to  your  door, 
As  half  in  fear  and  all  in  love 

I  heard  the  "  one  kiss  more ! " 

You  cannot  know,  my  dear  one, 

How  deep  this  heart  of  mine, 
With  anxious  hopes  and  tender  fears, 

Responds  the  love  of  thine. 

And  often,  very  often, 

When  sleep  hath  bowed  your  head, 
I  kneel  in  lonely  vigil 

And  pray  beside  your  bed, 

That  you  may  be,  not  great  but  good — 

A  higher,  loftier  aim, 
As  heavenly  meed  is  better  far 

Than  earth's  ephemeral  fame. 

Co  gay,  be  happy,  darling, 

But  still  where'er  you  roam, 
Do  not  forgot  that  spot,  so  sweet 

We  call  our  cottage  home. 


110  EPITHALAMIUM. 


EPITHALAMIUM. 


A  memory  sweet  for  a  fair  young  bride, 

But  what  shall  the  offering  be? 
Shall  it  come  from  the  golden  mines  of  earth, 

Or  the  depths  of  the  sounding  sea? 

Shall  its  sheen  be  that  of  the  ruby  gleam, 

Or  the  amethyst's  paler  hue? 
Shall  its  light  be  that  of  the  emerald  beam, 

Or  the  turquoise's  softer  blue. 

Oh  no!  for  already  upon  her  brow 

She  weareth,  in  golden  youth, 
A  crown  that  would  pale  all  lesser  ones — 

"Tis  woven  of  love  and  truth. 


EPITHALAMIUM.  Ill 

Then  take  from  my  heart,  oh,  gentle  bride, 

A  hope  and  a  trusting  prayer, 
That  sunbeams  ever  upon  thy  way 

Their  golden  hues  may  wear. 

And  still,  as  now,  may  bliss  be  thine, 

While  days  glide  sweetly  on, 
With  memories  dear  of  a  happy  past, 

And  hope  in  the  yet  to  come. 


112        ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING, 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING  is  conceded 
to  be  the  poetess  of  our  age.  The  preco 
cious  pupil  of  her  learned  and  distin 
guished  father,  she  translated,  at  an  in 
credibly  early  age,  the  grand  old  Greek, 
and  Latin  masters,  wrote  poetry  at  ten, 
more  than  well  at  fifteen.  Miss  Mitford, 
in  her  extreme  old  age,  thought  nothing 
of  riding  forty-five  miles,  and  returning  in 
the  evening  of  the  same  day,  simply  for 
the  pleasure  which  her  friendship  gave 
her.  She  describes  her  at  the  age  of  six- 


ELIZABETH    BARRET  BROWNING.  113 

teen,  as  follows  : — "  She  was  the  most  in 
teresting  person  I  had  ever  seen,  of  a 
slight,  delicate  figure,  with  a  shower  of 
delicate  curls  falling  on  either  side  of  a 
most  expressive  face,  large  tender  eyes, 
richly  fringed  by  dark  eye-lashes,  a  smile 
like  a  sunbeam,  and  such  a  look  of  youth- 
fulness  that  I  could  scarcely  persuade  a 
friend  who  saw  her  at  this  period  that  she 
was  the  translatress  of  the  '  Prometheus  of 
/Eschylus/  the  authoress  of  the  '  Essay 
on  Mind.' "  Her  writings  are  frequently 
marked  with  an  intense  feeling  of  humanity 
and  of  womanhood,  but  not  until  the  sor 
row  of  her  life  fell  upon  her,  not  until 
those  sad,  deep  fountains  of  her  heart 
were  stirred  by  the  weight  of  a  stun 
ning  blow,  do  we  observe  that  hue  of 
thought  and  feeling,  especially  that  devo- 


114          ELIZABETH  BARRET   BROWNING. 

tlonal  feeling,  which  characterized  her 
later  Avorks.  This  sad  event,  which  nearly 
killed  Elizabeth  Barrett,  was  the  sudden 
and  untimely  death  of  her  beloved  brother. 
Her  health  was  rendered,  precarious  by  the 
bursting  of  a  blood  vessel,  and  the  phy 
sicians  ordered  her,  on  the  approach  of 
winter,  to  a  milder  climate.  Thither,  ac 
companied  by  this  dear  and  devoted  rela 
tive,  she  departed.  She  derived  much  bene 
fit  from  the  change,  until  One  fine  summer 
morning  he,  accompanied  by  a  few  friends, 
left  her  for  a  pleasure  excursion  of  some 
hours.  By  an  accident  the  boat  upset, 
and  all  on  board  perished  —  even  their 
bodies  were  never  found.  It  was  not  until 
the  following  year  she  could  be  removed 
to  her  home,  so  utterly  prostrated  was  she 
by  the  horror  of  this  bereavement.  Then 


ELIZABETH    BARRET   BROWNING.  115 

the  sole  diversion  of  her  thoughts  was  in 
tellectual  pursuits.  Here  she  studied  and 
wrought,  and  found  her  consolation  either 
in  the  flowery  walks  of  literature  or  the 
rugged  paths  of  science.  Imagine  this 
delicate  woman  confined  to  one  large  and 
darkened  chamber  for  hours  in  every  day> 
reading  books  in  almost  every  language 
worth  reading,  giving  her  heart  and  soul 
to  those  occupations  which  seemed  to  have 
become  the  very  aliment  of  her  existence. 
It  has  sometimes  been  regretted  that  her 
theology,  which  was  of  a  peculiar  charac 
ter,  should  have  infused  itself  so  largely 
into  her  works  ;  and  it  is  very  remarkable 
that  with  her  profound  scholarship,  lofty 
spirit,  and  often  noble  appreciation  of  the 
great  and  good  of  past  ages,  she  should 
have  permitted  herself  to  give  utterance 


116  ELIZABETH  BARRET   BROWNING. 

to  expressions  and  sentiments  that  not  only 
grate  harshly  on  the  feelings  of  many,  but 
are  in  themselves  as  illiberal  as  falsely 
conceived.  Unfortunately,  in  this  respect, 
she  is  no  exception  to  the  generality  of 
writers.  But  from  the  wide  range  of  mat 
ter  which  is  indubitably  her  own,  we  can 
select  sufficient  to  enable  us  to  leave  out 
what  would  give  neither  pleasure  nor  pro 
fit.  Almost  through  her  entire  works  we 
miss  the  exquisite  tenderness,  the  child 
like  play  of  emotion,  that  is  so  beautiful  a 
concomitant  of  poetry.  Her  way  to  the 
heart  seems  so  cold  and  stately,  her  sen 
tences  so  profound,  nature  is  overlayed,  as 
it  were,  by  the  process,  and  while  we 
wonder  at  her  erudition,  our  sympathies 
are  uninfluenced  by  her  cold  but  correct 
process  of  reasoning.  But  there  are  times 


ELIZABETH  BARRET    BROWNING.  117 

when  her  heart  can  speak  its  grief  in  tones 
of  winning  tenderness.  Witness  the  prayer 
in  "Isobel's  Child,"  how  the  mother  speaks 
in  every  word.  Her  pleadings  are  irre 
sistible: 


"  Oh !  take  not,  Lord,  my  child  away, 

Oh !  take  not  to  thy  songful  Heaven, 

The  pretty  babe  that  thou  hast  given, 

Or  ere  that  I  have  seen  him  play, 

Around  his  father's  knees,  and  known 

That  he  knew  how  my  love  has  gone 

From  all  the  world  to  him: 

Think,  God,  among  the  cherubin, 

How  I  shall  shiver  every  day 

In  thy  pure  sunshine,  knowing  where 

The  grave-grass  keeps  it  from  his  fair, 

Still  checks,  and  feet  at  every  tread 

His  little  body  which  is  dead, 

And  hidden  in  the  turfy  fold, 

Doth  make  thy  whole  warm  earth  a-cold. 


118  ELIZABETH   BARRET    BROWNING. 

0  God,  I  am  so  young,  so  young, 

1  am  not  used  to  tears  at  nights 
Instead  of  slumber,  nor  to  prayer 
With  sobering  lips  and  heart  outwrung; 
Thou  knowest  all  my  prayings  were — 

I  bless  thee,  God,  for  past  delights: 

Thank  God,  I  am  not  used  to  bear 

Hard  thoughts  of  death;  the  earth  doth  cover 

No  face  from  me  of  friend  and  lover, 

And  must  the  first  who  teaches  me 

The  form  of  shrouds  and  funerals  be 

Mine  own  first-bora  beloved  ?  he 

Who  taught  me  first  this  mother-love. 

Dear  Lord  who  spreadeth  out  above 

Thy  loving  transpierced  hands  to  meet, 

All  lifted,  hearts  with  blessings  sweet, 

Pierce  not  my  heart,  my  tender  heart, 

Thou  madest  tender.    Thou  who  art 

So  happy  in  thy  heaven  alway, 

Take  not  mine  only  bliss  away." 


ELIZABETH    BARRET   BROWNING.  119 

Could  anything  reveal  more  perfectly 
the  struggle  of  a  mother's  heart  ?  and  yet 
the  prayer  is  enhanced  by  the  beauty  of 
the  calm  resignation  which  concludes  the 
picture  : 

"  I  changed  the  cruel  prayer  I  made, 

And  bowed  my  meekened  face  and  prayed 

That  God  would  do  His  will;  and  thus 

He  did  it  nurse.    He  parted  us, 

And  his  sun  shows  victorious 

The  dead  calm,  and  I  am  calm; 

And  heaven  is  hearkening  a  new  psalm." 

• 

This  exquisite  poem  would  seem  to  re 
fute  the  idea  that  her  way  to  the  heart 
was  circuitous;  but  like  all  children  of 
genius  she  had  her  meteoric  flashes,  her 
dazzling  gleams,  though  her  bent  seemed 
philosophical,  satirical,  nay,  even  political. 


120  ELIZABETH    BARRET  BROWNING. 

Her  facility  as  a  writer  is  wonderfully  proved 
in  the  shortness  of  time  in  which  was  put 
into    form    her    "Lady    Geraldine's    Court 
ship.'7     It    is    certainly    one    of    the    most 
charming    love    stories  of   any  language — 
contains  one  hundred  and  three  stanzas,  and 
was    written    in    twelve    hours.     Surely    it 
must    have   been    lying  in    her    head    and 
heart,  says  Miss  Mitford.     Mrs.  Browning's 
"biographers  delight  in  a  little  incident  con 
nected  therewith.     They    say    her   allusion 
to  a  poem  of  Browning's  led  to  an  intro 
duction,  and  marriage  followed  soon  after. 
Let  this  be   as  it  will,  never  was  a  union 
more  replete   with   happiness.    Hilliard,  in 
his    "Six  Months    in    Italy,"    says   a  more 
perfect  bliss  is  difficult  to  imagine,  and  this 
completeness  arises  not  only  from  the  rare 
qualities    which    each    possesses,    but    from 


ELIZABETH   BARRET    BROWNING.  121 

their  perfect  adaptation  to  each  other.  As 
he  is  full  of  manly  power,  so  she  is  a  type 
of  the  most  delicate  and  sensitive  woman 
hood.  I  have  never  seen  a  human  frame 
which  seemed  so  nearly  a  transcript  of  a 
celestial  and  immortal  spirit.  She  is  a  soul 
of  fire  inclosed  in  a  shell  of  pearl,  nor  is  she 
more  remarkable  for  genius  and  learning, 
than  for  her  gentleness  and  docility  of  charac 
ter.  It  is  a  privilege  to  know  such  beings 
singly  and  separate!}-,  but  to  see  their  powers 
quickened  and  their  happiness  rounded  by 
the  sacred  tie  of  marriage  is  a  cause  for 
peculiar  and  lasting  gratitude.  A  union  so 
complete  as  theirs,  in  which  the  mind  has 
nothing  to  crave,  nor  the  heart  to  sigh  for, 
is  cordial  to  behold  and  soothing  to  remem 
ber.  In  her  sonnets  from  the  Portugese, 
which  might  have  been  called  leaves  from 


122  ELIZABETH    BARRET   BROWNING. 

her  own  hca?'t,  she  writes  thus  on  love: 

"  Yes,  love,  mere  love,  is  beautiful  indeed, 

And  worthy  of  acceptation.    Fire  is  bright, 

Let  temple  burn  or  flax,  an  equal  light 

Leaps  in  the  flame  from  cedar  plant  or  weed, 

And  love  is  fire  and  when  I  say  it,,  need 

I  love  thee?    Mark;  I  love  thee!  in  thy  sight 

I  stand  transfigured,  glorified  aught 

With  conscience  of  the  sun-rays  that  proceed 

Out  of  my  face  toward  thine.    There's  nothing  low 

In  love,  when  love  the  lowest,  meanest  creatures 

Who  love  God,  God  accepts  while  loving  so, 

And  what  I  feel  across  the  inferior  features 

Of'what  I  am  doth  flash  itself,  and  show 

How  that  great  work  of  love  enhances  nature's." 

The  graceful  pen  of  the  gifted  Tucker- 
man  was  the  first  American  who  gave  to 
Mrs.  Browning  her  just  meed  of  praise. 
While  he  does  justice  to  her  genius,  ho 


ELIZABETH   BARRET   BROWNING.  123 

shrinks  not  from  her  faults,  but  with  a 
discrimination  and  honesty  which  is  the 
charm  of  a  biogropher,  he  presents  her 
fairly  and  impartially  to  the  reader.  Ho 
says  she  is  often  Dantesque  and  Miltonic. 
As  an  evidence,  the  following.  Lucifer  nar 
rates  an  incident  in  the  drama  of  Adam 
and  Eve: 

"Dost  thou  remember,  Adam,  when  the  curse 
Took  us  from  Eden.    On  a  mountain  peak, 
Half  sheathed  in  prismal  woods,  and  glittering 
In  spasms  of  awful  sunshine  at  that  hour, 
A  lion  crouched — part  raised  from  his  paws, 
With  his  calm,  massive  face  turned  full  on  thine, 
And  his  mane  listening.    When  the  ended  curse 
Left  silence  to  the  world  right  suddenly, 
He  sprang  up  rampant  and  stood  straight  and  stiff, 

As  if  the  new  reality  of  death  were   dashed   against  his 
eyes, 

And  roared  so  fierce — such  thick,  carniverous  passion  in 
his  throat, 


124  ELIZABETH    BARRET   BROWNING. 

Tearing  a  passage  through  the  wrath  and  fear, 
And  roared  so  wild,  and  smote  from  all  the  hills 
Such  fast,  keen  echoes,  crumbling  down  the  oaks 

To  distant  silence,  that  the  forest  beasts, 

x 
One  after  one,  did  mutter  a  response 

In  savage  and  in  sorrowful  complaint, 
Which  trailed  along  the  gorges.    Then  at  ones 
He  fell  back  and  rolled  crashing  from  the  height, 
Hid  by  the  dark-orbed  pines." 

As  an  evidence  of  versatility  of  talent, 
read  the  following,  taken  from  "Aurora 
Leigh:" 

"By  the  way,  the  works  of  women  are  symbolical, 
We  sew,  sew,  prick  our  fingers,  dull  our  sight, 
Producing  what  ?    A  pair  of  slippers,  sir, 
To  put  on  when  you're  weary;  or  a  stool 
To  tumble  over  and  vex  you —     *       *      * 
Or  else,  at  best,  a  cushion  where  you  lean 
And  sleep,  and  dream  of  something  we  are  not, 
But  would  be  for  your  sake." 


ELIZABETH   BARRET  BROWNING.  125 


She   makes  Romney   Leigh   criticise    her 
\vorks,  and  give  us  a  specimen  of  satire: 


'Oh  excellent!  what  grace!  what  facile  turns! 
What  fluent  sweeps !  what  delicate  discernment — 
Almost  thought!    The  book  does  honor  to  the  sex 
We  hold.    Among  our  female  writers  we  make  room 
For  this  fair  author,  and  congratulate  the  country 
That  produces,  in  these  times,  such  women  competent 
To  spell 

Another  possesses  a  bitterness  almost  un 
exampled: 

I  perceive 

The  headache  is  too  noble  for  my  sex. 
You  think  the  heartache  would  sound  decenter, 
Since  that's  the  woman's  special,  proper  ache, 
And  altogether  tolerable— except 
To  a  woman. 


126  ELIZABETH    BARRET  BROWNING, 

What  a  volume  of  hopes  and  fears  are 
conveyed  in  the  following  expressions: 

My  Father — Thou  hast  knowledge, 

Only  Thou.    How  dreary  'tis  for  women  t    sit  still 

On  winter  nights,  by   solitary  fires, 

And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  far  off. 

To  have  our  books 

Appraised  by  love  associated  with  love, 
While  we  sit  loveless;  it  is  hard,  you  think? 
At  least,  'tis  mournful.     Fame,  indeed,  'twas  said, 
Means  simply  love.    It  was  a  man  said  that. 

Happy  for  her,  the  song  teachings  of  her 
muse  found  a  blissful  experience  in  the 
practical  relations  of  life.  I  feel  constrained 
to  prove  this  by  the  words  of  Robert  Brown 
ing  to  his  wife,  in  his  poem  entitled  "  One 
Word  More:" 


ELIZABETH  BABBET  BROWNING.        127 

"  God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 
Boasts  two  souls  sides — one  to" face  the  world  with, 
One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her. 
"  This  to  you — yourself,  my  moon  of  poets. 
Ah,  but  that's  the  world  side— there's  the  wonder; 
Thus  they  see  you;  praise  you,  think  they  know  you. 
There  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise  you 
Out  of  my  own  self.    I  dare  to  phrase  it, 
But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them, 
Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dnbious  twilight. 
Come  out  on  the  other  side.    The  novel 
Silver,  silent  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of, 
"Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence.'' 

Immediately  after  their  marriage  the 
Brownings  removed  to  Italy.  This  became 
their  permanent  home.  It  has  been  asked 
by  one  of  her  biographers,  might  not  the 
poetic  bays  of  the  laureate  of  England  have 
been  disputed  if  they  had  remained  there? 
It  is  now  a  fact  uncontroverted  that  no 


12o  ELIZABETH   BARRET    BROWNING. 

writers  since  the  days  of  Shakspeare  have 
written  liner  poetry  than  that  which  is 
now  under  consideration.  Mrs.  Browning 
always  doubted  her  own  originality.  She 
had  a  perfect  scorn  for  her  earlier  produc 
tions,  and  yet  her  power  over  language  was 
so  wonderful,  so  enlarged,  so  varied,  she 
possessed  such  a  vocabulary  for  her  own 
choice,  that  she  at  least  Avas  independent 
of  all  others.  "With  a  skill  peculiarly  her 
own,  she  knew  how  to  select  those  which 
give  a  charm  to  the  idea  and  beauty  to  the 
imagery — a  strength  to  the  whole.  "Words 
are  instruments  of  music."  Who  can  fail 
to  observe  this  in  the  Iliad  of  Homer,  and 
the  poems  of  Walter  Scott?  You  can  almost 
hear  the  tramp  of  the  steed,  the  clash  of 
the  steel,  the  rush  of  the  hosts,  the  onset, 
the  clamor,  the  dinj  and  this  not  by  tho 


ELIZABEni    BARRET  BROWNING.  129 

power   of   the   idea  more    than   the   words 
which  clothe  it. 

Some  of  Mrs.  Browning's  translations  from 
the  Greek  Christian  poets  are  very  fine, 
The  following  is  from  "  John  of  Damascene," 
she  says  herself,  the  tears  seem  to  trickle 
audibly: 

"From  my  lips  in  their  defilement, 
From  my  heart  in  its  bcguilement, 
From  my  tongue  which  speaks  not  fair, 
From  my  soul,  stained  everywhere, 
O,  my  Jesus,  take  my  prayer. 

I  have  sinned-  more  than  she, 
Who  learning  where  to  meet  with  Thee, 
And  bringing  myrrh  the  highest  priced, 
Anointed  bravely,  from  her  knee, 
Thy  blessed  feet  accordingly, 

My  God,  my  Lord,  my  Christ, 

9 


130  ELIZABETH   BARRET    BROWNINO. 

As  Thou  saidst  not  depart 

To  that  suppliant  from  her  heart, 

Scorn  me  not,  O  Word  that  art 

The  gentlest  Words  of  all  words  said, 

But  give  Thy  feet  to  me  instead, 

That  tenderly  I  may  them  kiss, 

And  clasp  them  close  and  never  miss. 

With  overdropp'ng  tears,  as  free 

And  precious  as  that  myrrh  could  be, 

T'  anoint  Thee  bravely  from  my  knee, 

Wash  them  wilh  my  tears." 


Who  can  say  one  word  to  this  wail  of  a 
contrite  heart?  Our  hearts  bow  to  the 
anguish  depicted,  and  yield  their  simple, 
silent  tribute  of  acknowledgment.  She 
speaks  thus  of  St.  Gregory  of  jSTazianxon: — • 
"A  noble  and  tender  man  was  this  Gregory, 
and  so  tender  because  so  noble,  a  man  to  lose 
no  cubit  of  his  stature  for  being  looked  at 


ELIZABETH    BARRET   BROWNIXG.  131 

steadfastly  or  struck  at  reproachfully.  You 
may  cast  me  down,  he  said,  from  my  Bishop's 
throne,  but  you  cannot  banish  me  from  be 
fore  God's.  And  Bishop  he  was,  his  saintly 
crown  stood  higher  than  his  tiara,  and  his 
loving  martyr-smile,  the  crown  of  a  nature 
more  benign  than  his  fortune,  shone  up 
toward  both.  The  desire  of  his  soul  being 
for  solitude,  quietude  and  that  silent  religion 
which  should  rather  'be  than  seem.'  But 
his  father's  head  bent  whitely  before  him, 
even  in  the  chamber  of  his  brother's  death, 
and  Basil,  his  beloved  friend,  the  '  half  of 
his  sonl,'  pressed  on  him  with  the  weight  of 
love,  and  Gregory  feeling  their  tears  upon 
his  cheeks  did  not  count  his  own,  but  took 
up  the  priestly  office.  Little  did  he  care 
for  Bishoprics  or  high  places  of  any  kind, 
but  he  yielded.  His  student  days  at  Athens, 


132  ELIZABETH   BARRET    BROWNING. 

where  he  and  Basil  read  together  poems 
and  philosophies,  and  holier  things,  were 
the  happiest  of  his  life.  He  says  of  himself: 
'As  "many  stones  were  thrown  at  me  as 
other  men  had  flowers/  nor  was  persecution 
the  worst  evil,  for  friend  after  friend,  be 
loved  after  beloved,  passed  away  from  be 
fore  his  face,  and  the  voice  which  charmed 
them  living  spoke  brokenly  beside  their 
graves,  his  funeral  orations  marked  sever 
ally  the  wounds  of  his  heart.  The  follow 
ing  extract  is  a  Avail  of  grief: 

Where  are  my  winged  words?    Dissolved  in  air. 
Where  is  my  flower  of  youth?    All   withered.    Where 
My  glory?    Vanished.    Where  the  strength  I  knew 
From  comely  limbs  ?    Disease  hath  changed  it  too, 
And  bent. them.    Where  the  riches  and  the  lands? 
God  hath  them,  yea   and  sinner's  snatching  hands 
Have  grudged  the  rest.    Where  is  my  father,  mother, 


ELIZABETH   BARRET    BROWNING.  133 

And  where  my  blessed  sister,  my  sweet  brother  ? 
Gone  to  the  grave !    There  did  remain  for  me 
Alone  my  Fatherland,  till  destiny, 
Malignly  stirring  a  black  tempest,  drove 
My  foot  from  that  last  rest.    And  now  I  rove 
Estranged  and  desolate  a  foreign  shore, 
And  drag  my  mournful  life  and  age  all  o'er 
Throneless  and  cityless,  and  childless,  save 
This  father-care  for  children  which  I  have, 
Living  from  day  to  day  on  wandering  feet. 
Where  shall  I  cast  this  body  ?    What  will  greet 
My  sorrows  with  an  end  ?    What  geutle  ground 
And  hospitable  grave  will  wrap  me  round? 
Who  last  my  dying  eyelids  stoop  to   close? 
Some  saint,  the  Saviour's  friend,  or  one  of  those 
Who  do  not  know  him.     The  air  interpose 
And  scatter  these  words  too, 


In  the  Cry  of  the  Children,  Mrs.  Brown 
ing  expresses  her  intense  sympathy  with 
the  woes  of  the  desolate  and  the  unfortu- 


ELIZABETH   BARRET    BROWNING. 

natc;  it  has  been  called  a  twin  poem  with 
"  Hood's  Song  of  the  Shirt."  How  feelingly 
she  pleads  their  sufferings — the  blank  hope 
lessness  of  their  condition.  The  opening  is 
particularly  fine. 

"Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  their  sorrow, 

Why  their  tears  are  falling  so  ? 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow, 

Which  is  lost  in  long  ago; 
The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest, 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost, 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest, 

The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost; 
But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my  brothers, 

Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 
Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their  mothers, 

In  our  happy  Fatherland. 

"  They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken  faces, 
And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see, 


ELIZABETH    BARRET  BROWNING.  135 

For  the  man's  hoary  anguish  draws  and  presses 

Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy. 
'Your  old  earth,'  they  say,  'is  very  dreary; 

Our  young  feet,'  they  say,  '  are  very  weak ; 
Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek.' 
Ask  the  aged  why  they  weep,  and  not  the  children : 

For  the   outside  earth  is  cold; 
And  we  young  ones  stand  without,  in  our  bewildering, 

And  the  graves  are  for  the  old." 

Remarkable  for  its  beautiful  figures  and 
sweet  fancies,  is  the  following  extract  taken 
from 

THE    POET'S    VOW: 

"Eve  is  a  two-fold  mystery, 

The  stillness  earth  doth  keep, 
The  motion  wherewith  human  hearts 

Do  each  to  either  leap; 


136  ELIZABETH   BARRET    BROWNING. 

As  if  all  souls  between  the  poles 
Felt  parting  comes  in  sleep. 

The  rowers  lift  their  oars  to  view 

Each  other  in  the  sea; 
The  landsmen  watch  the  rocking  boats 

In  a  pleasant  company; 
While  up  the  hill  go  gladlier  still 

Dear  friends  by  two  and  three 

"  The  peasant's  wife  hath  looked  without 

Her  cottage  door  and  smiled, 
For  there  the  peasant  drops  his  spada 

To  clasp  his  yonngest  child; 
Which  hath  no  speech,  but  its  hands  can  reach, 

And  stroke  his  forehead  mild." 

The  following  poem  illustrates  a  remark 
ably  fine  conception  of  the  tender  loving 
ness  of  the  Great  Creator.  The  conclud 
ing  verse  is  remarkably  touching: 


ELIZABETH    BARRET   BROW1TIXG.  137 

HE  GIVETH  HIS  BELOVED  SLEEP." 

"  Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
.Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar, 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this — 
'He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.' 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved, 
The  hero's  heart  to  be  unmoved, 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice  to  teach  and  rouse 
The  monarch's  crown  to  light  the  brows? 
He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

"What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved? 

A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust  to  overweep; 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 

The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake. 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 


138  ELIZABETH    BARRET  BROWNING. 

"  '  Sleep  soft,  beloved ! '  we  sometimes  say, 

Cut  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep, 

But  never  doleful  dream  again 

Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 


"O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises, 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices, 
O  delved  gold,  the  wailer's  heap, 
O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  Giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 


"  His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap, 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep 


ELIZABETH    BARRET   BROWNING.  139 

"Aye  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man 
Confirmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep; 
But  angels  say  and  through  the  word 
I  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard — 
lie  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

"  For  me  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 
That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers  leap, 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would  child-like  on  His  love  repose, 
Who  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

"And  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall  bo 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 
And  round  my  bier  ye  como  to  weep, 
Let  one  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say  '  not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall,' 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

Theodore   Tilton   says  the    poem  of   the 
"Virgin  Mary  and  Child  Jesus,"   has  mani- 


140  ELIZABETH   BARRET   BROWNING. 

festly  followed  Milton's   style.     It  is  given 
entire : 


THE  VIRGIN  MARY  TO  THE  CHILD 

JESUS. 


"But  sec  the  Virgin  blest. 
Hath  laid  her  babe  to  rest." 

Milton's  Hymn  on  the  Nativi'y. 


"  Sleep,  sleep  mine  holy  one ! 

My  flesh,  my  lord,  what  name  I  do  not  know, 

A  name  that  seemeth  not  too  high  or  low, 

Too  far  from  me  or  heaven, 

My  Jesus  that  is  blest,  that  word  being  given, 

By  the  majestic  angel,  whose  command 

Was  softly  as  a  man's  beseeching  said, 

When  I  and  all  the  earth  appeared  to  stand 

In  the  great  overflow 

Of  light  celestial,  from  his  wings  and  head, 

Sleep,  sleep  my  saving  One! 


ELIZABETH    BARRET  BROWNING.  141 

"Perchance  this  sleep,  that  shutteth  out  the  dreaxy 

Earth-sounds  and  motions,  opens  on  thy  soul; 
High  dreams  on  fire  with  God, 

High  songs  that  make  the  pathway  where  they  rolJ 
More  bright  than  stars  do  theirs  :  and  visions  new 
Of  Thine  eternal  nattvre's  old  abode. 

Suffer  this  mother's  kiss, 

Best  thing  that  earthly  is, 
To  glide  the  music  and  the  glory  through, 
Nor  Narrow  in  thy  dream  the  broad  upliftings 

Of  any  seraph  wing, 
Thus  Noiseless,  thus  sleep,  sleep,  my  dreaming  One. 

"  The  slumber  of  His  lips  mesecms  to  run 
Through  my  lips  to  mine  heart — to  all  its  shiftings 
Of  sensual  life — bringing  contrariousncss 
In  a  great  calm.    I  feel  I  could  lie  down, 
As  Moses  did,  and  die— and  then  live  most. 
I  am  'ware  of  you  Heavenly  Presences, 
That  stand  with  your  peculiar  light  unlost, 
Each  forehead  with  a  high  thought  for  a  crown, 
Unsunned  i'  the  sunshine!  I  am  'ware  ye  throw 


142  ELIZABETH    BARRET  BROWNING. 

No  shade  against  the  wall!   how  motionless 

Ye  round  me  with  your  living  statuary, 

While  through  your  Avhiteness,  in  and  outwardly, 

Continual  thoughts  of  God  appear  to  go 

Like  light's  soul  in  itself.    I  bear,  I  bear 

To  look  upon  the  dropt  lids  of  your  eyes, 

Though  their  external  shining  testifies 

To  that  beatitude,  within  which  were 

Enough  to  blast  an  eagle  at  his  sun, 

I  fall  not  on  my  sad,  clay  face  before  ye— 

I  look  on  His.    I  know 
My  spirit  which  dilateth  with  the  woo 

Of  his  mortality, 

May  well  contain  your  glory, 

Yea,  drop  your  lids  more  low, 
Ye  are  but  fellow-worshippers  with  me! 
Sleep,  sleep  my  Worshipped  One! 

"  We  sate  among  the  stalls  at  Bethlehem, 

The  dumb  kine  from  their  fodder  turning  them, 

Softened  their  horned  faces 

To  almost  human  gazes 


ELIZABETH  BARRET    BROWNING. 


Toward  the  newly  born. 
The  simple  shepherds  from  the  star-lit  brooks 

Brought  visionary  looks, 
As  yet  in  their  astonished  hearing  rung 

The  strange,  sweet  angel-tongue. 
The  magi  of  the  East,  in  sandals  worn, 

Knelt  reverent,  sweeping  round, 
With  long,  pale  beards,  their  gifts  upon  the  ground, 

The  incense,  myrrh  and  gold 
These  baby  hands  were  impotent  to  hold. 
So  let  all  earthlies  and  celestials  wait 

Upon  thy  royal  state. 

Sleep,  sleep  uiy  Kingly  One! 

"  I  am  not  proud  —  meek  angels  ye  invest 
New  meeknesses  to  hear  such  utterance  rest 
On  mortal's  lips  —  I  am  not  proud—  not  proud! 
Albeit  in  my  flesh  God  sent  His  Son, 
Albeit  over  Him  my  head  is  bowed 
As  others  bow  before  Him,  still  mine  heart 
Bows  lower  than  their  knees.    0  centuries 
That  roll  in  visions,  your  futurities 


144  ELIZABETH   BARRET    BROWNING. 

My  future  grave  athwart — 
Whose  murmurs  seem  to  reach  me  while  I  kaep 

Watch  o'er  this  sleep. 
Say  of  me  as  the  heavenly  said — thou  art 
The  blessedest  of  women ! — blessedest, 
Not  holiest,  not  noblest — no  high  name, 
Whose  height  misplaced  may  pierce  me  like  a  shame, 
When  I  sit  meek  in  Heaven ! 

For  me,  for  me, 

God  knows  that  I  am  feeble  like  the  rest! 
I  often  wandered  forth,  more  child  than  maiden, 
Among  the  midnight  hills  of  Galilee, 

Whose  summits  looked  heaven  laden, 
Listening  to  silence  as  it  seemed  to  be 
God's  voice,  so  soft,  yet  strong — so  fair  to  press' 
Upon  my  heart  as  Heaven  did  on  the  height, 
And  waken  up  its  shadows  by  a  light, 
And  show  its  vileness  by  a  holiness. 
Then  I  knelt  down,  most  silent  like  the  night, 

Too  self-renounced  for  fears, 
Raising  my  small  face  to  the  boundless  blue, 
Whose  stars  did  mix  and  tremble  in  my  tears, 
God  heard  them  falling  after — with  the  dew, 


ELIZABETH    BARRET   BROWNING.  145 

"  So,  seeing  my  corruption,  can  I  see 

This  incorruptible  now  born  of  me, 

This  fair  new  innocence  no  sun  did  chance 

To  shine  on,  (for  even  Adani  was  no  child,) 

Created  from  my  nature  all  defiled, 

This  mystery,  from  out  mine  ignorance., 

Nor  feel  the  blindness,  stain,  corruption,  more 

Than  others  do,  or  I  did  heretofore  ? 

Can  hands  wherein  such  burden  pure  has  been, 

Not  open  with  the  cry  'unclean,  unclean/ 

More  oft  than  else  beneath  the  skies? 

Ah  King,  ah  Christ,  ah  Son ! 
The  kine,  the  shepherds,  the  abase'd  wise, 

Must  all  less  lowly  wait 

Than  I,  upon  Thy  state, — 

Sleep,  sleep  my  Kingly  One  1 

Art  Thou  a  King,  then?    Come,  His  universe 

Come,  crown  me  Him  a  King ! 

Pluck  rays  from  all  such  stars  as  never  fling 

Their  light  where  fell  a  curse, 

And  make  a  crowning  for  his  kingly  brow! 

10 


146  ELIZABETH    BARRET  BROWNING. 

What  is  my  word  ?    Each  empyreal  star 
Sits  in  a  sphere  afar 
In  shining  ambuscade, 
The  child-brow  crowned  by  none, 
Keeps  its  unchildlike  shade, 
Sleep,  sleep  my  crownless  One! 

"  Unchildlike  shade ! — No  other  babe  doth  wear 

An  aspect  very  sorrowful  as  thou. 

No  small  babe  smiles,  my  watching  heart  has  seen 

To  float  like  speech  the  speechless  lips  between; 

No  dove-like  cooing  in  the  golden  air, 

No  quick,  short  joys,  leaping  babyhood. 

Alas!  our  earthly  good 
In  Heaven  thought  evil,  seems  too  good  for  Thee, 

Yet  sleep ,  my  weary  One ! 

And  then  the  drear,  sharp  tongue  of  prophecy, 
With  the  drear  sense  of  things  which  shall  be  done, 
Doth  smite  me  inly,  like  a  sword !  a  sword ! 
(That  '  smites  the  shepherd,')  then  I  think  aloud 
The  words  '  despised,' — '  rejected,'  every  word 


ELIZABETH    BARRET   BROWNING. 

Recoiling  into  darkness  as  I  view 

The  darling  on  my  knee. 

Bright  angels, — move  not ! — lest  ye  stir  the  cloui 
Betwixt  my  soul  and  His  futurity! 
I  must  not  die  with  mother's  work  to  do, 

And  could  not  live— and  see. 


"  It  is  enough  to  bear 
This  image  still  and  fair — 
This  holier  in  sleep, 
Than  a  saint  at  prayer; 
This  aspect  of  a  child 
Who  never  sinned  or  smiled, 
This  presence  in  an  infant's  face, 
This  sadness  most  like  love; 
This  love  than  love  more  deep, 
This  weakness  like  omnipotence, 
It  is  so  strong  to  move. 
Awful  is  this  watching  place, 
Awful  what  I  see  from  hence— 
A  king,  without  regalia. 


148  ELIZABETH   BARRET    BROWNING. 

A  God,  without  the  thunder. 

A  child  without  the  heart  for  play; 

.Aye,  a  Creator,  rent  asunder 

From  his  first  glory  and  cast  away 

On  his  own  world,  for  me  alone 

To  hold  in  hands  created,  crying — Son! 

"That  tear  fell  not  on  thee, 
Beloved,  yet  thou  stirrest  in  thy  slumber! 
Then  stirring  not  for  glad  sounds  out  of  number, 
Which  through  the  vibratory  palm-trees  runs 

From  summer  wind  and  bird, 

So  quickly  hast  thou  heard 

A  tear  fall  silently  ? — 

Wak'st  thou,  O  loving  One  ? " 

Sufficient  poems  and  extracts  have  been 
given  to  render  my  readers  familiar  with 
the  style  of  Mrs  Browning,  and  yet  they 
are  almost  as  nothing  to  the  vast  store 
from  which  they  are  taken.  Robert  Brown- 


ELIZABETH    BARRET   BROWNING.  149 

ing,  the  happy  partner  of  her  too  short 
married  life,  although  possessing  large  claims 
to  our  consideration,  is  not  equally  known 
with  his  wife  as  connected  with  her,  and 
out  of  justice  to  a  fine  poet,  I  quote  some 
of  the  recollections  of  a  celebrated  English 
writer,  who  thus  speaks  of  him  : — "  It  was 
at  the  close  of  an  entertainment,  graced  by 
"Wordsworth,  Landor,  Talfourd  and  many 
other  celebrities  of  the  day,  that  the  (then) 
young  author  of  '  Paracelsus '  was  called 
upon  to  respond  to  the  toast  '  The  Poets 
of  England.'  That  he  performed  the  task 
with  grace  and  modesty,  and  that  he  looked 
still  younger  than  he  was,  I  well  remember. 
And,"  she  continues,  "  I  never  see  his  books 
nor  read  his  plays  without  wishing  that  we 
had  actors  and  a  stage  to  represent  them; 
his  'Blot  on  the  Scutcheon,'  '  Colombo's  Birth- 


150  ELIZABETH   BARRET    BROWNING. 

day '  and  '  Lucia,7  are  evidences  of  his 
dramatic  ability."  A  little  extract  from  the 
'  Englishman  in  Italy/  the  same  writer  says, 
appeared  to  her  like  a  picture  by  Rubens, 
pulpy,  juicy,  full  of  bright  color  and  rich 
in  detail;  to  know  that  Ruskin  thought  it 
remarkably  fine  is  no  mean  praise." 

But  to-day  not  a  boat  reached  Salerno, 

S®  back  to  a  man 
Came  our  friends,  with  whose  help  in  the  vineyards 

Grape-harvest  began ; 
In  the  vat  half  way  up  on  our  house-side, 

Like  blood  the  juice  spins, 
While  your  brother  all  bare-legged  is  dancing, 

Till  breathless  he  grins; 
Dead  beaten  in  effort  on  effort, 

To  keep  the  grapes  under, 
Since  still  when  he  seems  all  but  master, 

In  pours  the  fresh  plunder 


ELIZABETH    BARRET  BROWNING.  151 

From  girls  who  keep  coming  and  going 
With  basket  on  shoulder — 

Meanwhile  see  the  grape-bimch  they've  brought  you, 

The  rain-water  slips 
O'er  the  heavy  blue  bloom  on  each  globe, 

Which  the  wasp  on  your  lips 
Still  follows  with  fretful  persistence — 

Nay,  taste  while  awake, 
This  half  of  a  curd-white  smooth  cheese-ball, 

That  peals  flake  by  flake 
Like  an  onion's,  each  smoother  and  whiter; 

Next  sip  this  weak  wine 
From  the  thin  green  flask  with  its  stopper 

A  leaf  of  the  vine, 
And  end  with  the  prickly  pear's  red  flesh, 

That  leaves  through  its  juice 
The  stony  black  seeds  on  your  pearl  teeth — • 

And  so  on. 

A   poem   of   his,  which  is  very   popular 


152  ELIZABETH  BAERET    BROWNING. 

having  the  rather  long  title:  "  How  they 
brought  the  good  news  from  Ghent  to 
A.ix,"  contains  life-like  descriptions  and  ex 
hibits  the  peculiar  style  of  the  writer.  The 
first  and  last  verses  are  here  given: 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joies,  and  he, 
I  galloped,  Dick  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three, 
Good  speed !  cried  the  watch  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew, 
Speed!  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  light  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other,  we  kept  the  great  pace, 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place. 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  the  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  the  stirrup  and  sst  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  check  strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily,  Roland,  a  whit. 


ELIZABETH    BARRET   BROWNING.  153 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each  holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called  my  Ronald !  his  pet-name,  my  horse,  without  peer, 

Clapped   my  hands,   laughed  *aad   sang,  any  noise  bad 
or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flocking  round, 
As  I  sate  with  his  head  twixt  my  knees  to  the  ground, 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 
Which  (the  Burgesses  voted  by  common  consent,) 

'Was   no  more   than   his   due   who   brought  good  news 
from  Ghent. 

The  compass  of  this  little  work  admits 
of  no  more  borrowings,  or  we  might  still 
go  on  to  an  infinitude;  after  all,  a  life  is  told 
chiefly  in  its  beginning  and  its  close.  Mrs. 
Browning's  then  is  told  in  these  brief  words: 
She  was  born  in  1809,  died  June  29,  1861. 


154  SOXG. — TO  KITTLE  B. 


SONG. 

TO     KITTIE     B. 


Autumn  winds  are  wailing, 
Lone  stars  arc  paling, 
Over  the  distant  sea. 

While  my  heart  prayeth, 
List  what  it  sayeth, 
Dearest  to  thee. 

Child  so  loved  and  treasured, 
Fondly  and  unmeasured, 
Long,  long  may  it  be. 


SONG. — TO   KITTIE  B.  155 

Golden  each  morrow, 
Freed  from  all  sorrow, 
Guarded  so  tenderly. 

Thus  ever  be  thy  way, 
'Till  God's  supernal  ray 
Enfold  thee  eternally 


156  NEW   YEAR  SOXG. 


NEW  YEAR   SONG   OF   1867. 


Tripping  along,  tripping  along, 
With  tones  of  gladness  and  words  of  song, 
A  beautiful  maid  with  dancing  feet, 
Hark  to  her  words  as  she  bends  to  greet 

A  Happy  New  Year  to  All! 

Shining  amid  her  golden  hair, 
Are  buds  of  promise  and  flowerets  rare, 
For  each  and  all  she  has  words  of  cheer, 
Softly  they  fall  on  the  listening  ear — 

A  Happy  New  Year  to  All ! 

From  her  sister  lone,  now  stark  and  cold, 
With  a  burthened  year  on  her  forehead  old, 


NEW   YEAR  SONG.  157 

Quickly  she  (urns  on  her  mission  away, 
The  time  is  pressing,  she  may  not  stay. 

A  Happy  New  Year  to  All! 

Tender  I  mingle  in  her  refrain, 
The  wish  of  my  heart  again  and  again, 
And  oh!  let  me  ask  that  your  thoughts  incline 
To  the  same  sweet  wish  for  me  and  mine — 
A  Happy  New  Year  to  Alll 


158  MARY  THE  IMMACULATE. 


MARY  THE  IMMACULATE. 


Oh  holy  Mary !  mother  mine, 

Here  at  thy  feet  my  votive  gifts  I  lay; 
Inspire  my  soul,  oh!  nerve  my  trembling  hand, 

A  worthier  offering  of  my  heart  to  pay. 

Angelic  maiden !  thou  wert  chosen 
Coeval  with  the  ransom  God  decreed; 

To  angel  lips  thy  sweet  consent  was  given, 
And  man  was  from  his  long  probation  freed. 

Immaculate ;  no  stain  of  sin  might  dwell, 
Within  that  shrine  which  God  selected  best; 

Pure  as  the  lily  in  its  earliest  dawn, 
That  form  of  beauty  where  his  son  should  res 


MARY  THE   IMMACULATE.  159 

Most  lowly  daughter  of  a  kingly  line, 
No  eloquence  inspired  guslied  from  thy  tongue ; 

No  -warblings  from  an  unseen  lyre, 
Floated  thy  sunny  vales  among. 


Patient  and  humble,  gentle  and  serene, 

Deep  in  thy  heart  each  virtue  found  its  rest ; 
Thy  life  was  hidden  in  a  lowly  cot. 
While  God  alone  inspired  thy  holy  breast. 


Yet  in  the  dimness  of  prophetic  lore, 
Poets  of  old  sang  of  that  maiden  pure, 

Whose  lofty  mission  and  whose  medium  sweet, 
In  humble  greatness  should  for  aye  endure. 


And  to  thy  shrine,  the  child  of  genius  comes, 
Basks  in  the  sunshine  of  thy  presence  rare, 

And  while  his  canvass  glows  with  added  light, 
His  soul  invigorates  itself  in  prayer. 


160 


MARY  THE  IMMACULATE. 


Mother,  sweet  mother,  previous  to  each  call, 
No  child  of  sorrow  ever  pleads  in  vain; 

Our  Saviour  God  will  not  refuse  the  prayer 
Of  her,  where  on  his  infant  head  hath  lain. 


ECCE   HOMO.  161 


ECCE    HOMO. 


Behold  the  man  in  passive  woe, 

A  willing  victim  at  command; 

Look  at  His  meekly  upturned  face, 

His  streaming  brow,  His  pinioned  hands, — 

The  garment  vile  around  Him  thrown — 

The  sceptred  reed — base  mockery  all! 

Vainly  ye  gaze,  insensate  crowd! 

From  His  pale  lip  no  murmurs  fall; 

No  plaint,  no  tone  save  words  of  love, 

From  that  poor  bruised  and  bleeding  heart ; 

"Father,  forgive  this  dire  offence, 

They  know  not  yet  their  guilty  part." 

In  memory  of  that  love  divine, 

The  Cross,  the  Thorn,  the  Sweat,  the  Spear, 

Grant  us  to  dwell  within  thy  love — 

And  live  in  endless  hope  and  fear. 

11 


162  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  impresses  us  as  a  man 
of  genius,  high  and  lofty  in  his  concep 
tions,  notwithstanding  the  many  crudities 
and  verbosities,  which  his  warmest  friends 
will  not  attempt  to  deny.  It  might  be 
thought  almost  excusable  for  one  who  owes 
his  high  position  to  court  favor,  a  certain  bias 
or  leaning  to  the  eccentricities  or  foibles 
of  the  great,  but  it  is  scarcely  to  be  found 
in  all  his  works.  He  has  discovered  that 
virtue  in  lowly  places  which  stamps  its 
possessor  noble — 

"A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
"Were  worth  a  hundred  coat*  of  arms." 


ALFRED  TENNYSON.  163 

Is  an  eloquent  exposition  of  his  sentiments. 
Again  in  the  same  poem : 

"Howe'cr  it  be  it  seems  to  rnc 

'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good, 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than   coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood." 

He  inveighs  against  pride  of  birth  also, 
in  "  The  Lord  of  Binieigh,"  where  a  simple 
village  maiden  is  wooed  and  won  by  one 
whom  she  conceives  to  be  of  her  own  sta 
tion,  but  who  is  "  Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and 
free."  Wearied  with  stateliness,  and  pining, 
for  the  simple  lowliness  of  her  former  con 
dition,  she  nevertheless 

"  Shaped  her  heart  with  woman's  meekness, 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank, 

But  a  trouble  weighed  upon  her, 


164  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

And  perplexed  her  night  and  morn, 
With  the  burthen  of  an  honor, 
Unto  which  she  was  not  born, 
And  she  murmured,  '  Oh  that  he 
"Were  once  more  that  landscape  painter 
Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me  1 ' " 

But  his  loyalty  to  merit  alone  is  still 
more  strictly  defined  in  his  exposition  of 
a  gentleman.  What  a  manly  independence 
breathes  in  every  line.  The  true  estimate 
of  worth  is  not  in  the  accidental  gifts  of 
wealth  and  power — it  is  discovered  only  in 
the  gentle  refinement — the  high  and  manly 
principle  of  a  well-ordered  mind. 

"The  churl  in  spirit,  np  or  down, 
Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  through  all 
To  who  may  grasp  a  golden  ball, 

By  blood  a  king,  at  heart  a  clown. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  165 

"  The  churl  in  spirit,  howe'er  he  veil 
His  want  in  forms  for  fashion's  sake, 
Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 

At  seasons,  through  the  gilded  pale ; 


"For  who  can  always  act?  but  he 
To  whom  a  thousand  memories   call, 
Not  being  less,  but  more  than  all, 

The  gentleness  he  seemed  to  be. 


"  So  wore  his  outward  best  and  joined 
Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners  as  the  flower, 

And  native  growth  of  noble  mind. 


"Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spite, 
Or  villian  fancy  fleeting  by, 
Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye, 

When  God  in  nature  met  in  light. 


166  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

"And  thus  he  bore,  without  abuse, 
The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman, 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan 

And  soiled  with  all  ignoble  use." 

Tennyson  eulogizes  a  simple  life,  of  which 
Wordsworth  says:  "That  happy  state  when 
the  heart  luxuriates  with  indifferent  things, 
wasting  its  kindliness  on  stocks  and  stones." 

"  Who  makes  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 
The  little  life  of  bank  and  brier, 
The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 

And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree. 


"Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud, 
And  drops  at  glory's  temple  gates, 
For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 

To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd." 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  167 

This  little  fragment  gives  one  a  fine 
idea  of  the  appropriateness  in  which  our 
poet  clothes  his  thoughts.  They  come  to 
us  first  in  the  expression  of  a  simple  descrip 
tion  arrayed  in  russet  robes,  but  when  by 
comparison  he  gives  us  another  view  of 
humanity,  we  almost  quail  before  the  pic 
ture  which  he  draws  so  fearfully  vivid.  If 
it  be  true  that  Tennyson  is  sometimes  gro 
tesque  and  occasionally  morbid,  may  it  not 
be  forgiven  to  one  who  so  often  touches 
the  lyre  with  such  mastery  of  skill,  and 
who  will  deny  that  even  in  his  vagueness 
he  has  power  to  charm.  We  frequently 
find  a  sentiment  developed  through  the  sur 
roundings  or  atmosphere  which  he  creates; 
and  while  his  physical  descriptions  make 
us  sensible  of  the  outward  world,  they  are 
but  the  pencil  in  the  hand  of  the  limner, 


168  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

marking  the  sadness,  the  desolation,  or  the 
joy  and  comfort  which  he  designs  to  illus 
trate  ;  as  an  instance  the  following  poem, 
which  is  given  entire.  Tuckerman  says 
of  it : — "  These  images,  so  full  of  graphic 
meaning,  give  us  the  lonely  sensation  that 
belongs  to  the  deserted  mansion ;  and  when 
at  the  close  of  each  stanza  the  melancholy 
words  of  Mariana,  bewailing  her  abandon 
ment,  fall  on  the  ear  with  their  sad  cadence, 
we  take  in  as  completely  the  whole  sense 
and  sentiment,  as  if  identified  with  it : " 

MARIANA. 

"With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 
"Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all; 

The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden-wall ; 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  169 

The  broken  sheds  looked  sad  aiid  strange; 

Uplifted  was  the  clinking  latch ; 

Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely,  moated  grange. 
She  only  said,  '  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  comcth  not,'  she  said ; 
She  said,  'I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead ! ' 

"  Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  Heaven, 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 
After  the  flittering  of  the  bats, 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 

She  drew  her  casement  curtain  by, 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats, 
She  only  said,  'The  night  is  dreary, 

He  comtth  not,'  she  said; 
She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead ! ' 


170  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

"Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 
Waking,  she  heard  the  night-fowl  erow; 

The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light ; 
From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 

Came  to  her;  without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seemed  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  broke  the  grey-eyed  morn 

About  the  lonely,  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  '  The  day  is  dreary, 
He  cometh* not,'  she  said; 

She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  I ' 

"About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall, 
A  sluice  with  blackened  waters  slept, 

And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small, 
The  clustered  niarish  mosses  crept. 

Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway, 
All  silver  green  with  gnarled  bark, 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 

The  level  waste,  the  rounding  grey. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  171 

She  only  said,  'My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,1  she  said ; 
She  said,  'I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead ! ' 


"And  ever  when  the  morn  was  low, 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway; 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 

And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  call, 

The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 
She  only  said,  '  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 
She  said,  'I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  1 ' 

"All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 
The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creaked; 


172  ALFRED  TEXXYSOX. 

The  blue-fly  sung  i'  the  pane;  the  mouse 

Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shrieked, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peered  about; 

Old  faces  glimmered  through  the  doors; 

Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors ; 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 
She  only  said,  'My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 
She  said,  'I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  1 ' 

The  sparrows  chirrup  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 

Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 
The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 

Her  sense;  but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 
When  the  thick  moated  sunbeam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 

Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 

Then,  said  she,  'I  am  very  dreary, 
He  will  not  come,'  she  said; 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  173 

She  wept,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
O  God !  that  I  were  der.d  ! ' " 

That  Tennyson  assimilates  to  the  great 
word  painter,  Crabbe,  I  quote  from  both  a3 
proof,  in  his  Day  Dream  he  describes 

"  The  butler  with  a  flask 

Between  his  knees,  half  drained ;  and  there 
The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task ; 

The  maid  of  honor  blooming  fair  ; 
The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his; 

Her  lips  are  severed  as  to  speak ; 
His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss ; 

The  blush  is  fixed  upon  her  cheek." 

Crabbe  paints  a  character  thus  : 

"  Fresh  were  his  features,  Lis  attire  was  new, 
Clean  Avas  his  linen,  and  his  jacket  blue, 
Of  finest  jean  his  trowsers  tight  and  trim, 
Brushed  the  large  buckles  at  the  silver  rim." 


174  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

The  little  extract  which  follows  is  as  gos 
samer-like  as  if  taken  from  the  "  Culprit 
Fay"  itself: 

"See  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot, 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  fairly  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design  ? 

"  What  is  it  ?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

"  The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
OS  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill? 


ALFRED   TfcNNYSOX.  175 

Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurled, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  iairy  horn, 
Thro'  his  dim  water-world?" 

Tennyson's    portraiture  of  a  wife  is  per 
fect,  if  not  too  perfect  for  imitation : 

"The  intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 
And  thorough-edged  intellect,  to  part 
Error  from  crime;  a  precedence  to  withhold; 
The  laws  of  marriage  charactered  in  gold, 
Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her  heart, 
A  love  still  burning  upward,  giving  light 
To  read  those  laws;  an  accent  very  low 
In  blandishment,  but  a  most  silver  flow 

Of  subtle  faced  counsel  ia  distress, 
Winning  its  way  with  extreme  gentleness 
Through  all  the  outworks  of  suspicion's  pride, 
A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey, 
A  hate  of  gossip,  parlance,  and  of  sway, 
Crowned  Isabel  through  all  her  placid  life, 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect  wife." 


176  ALFRED   TENNYSOX. 

In  the  trust  reposed  in  Tennyson,  we 
find  the  truest  acknowledgment  of  his  supe 
riority.  His  characteristics  are  universal; 
sometimes  "  moving  us  through  our  deepest 
sympathies,''  he  melts  us  with  a  kind  cf 
pleading  love,  as  in  "  King  Arthur "  and 
"  Guinevere."  Again,  in  some  grand  truth, 
relating  to  human  nature,  he  becomes  Shaks- 
perian : 

"  O  purblind  race  of  miserable  men, 
How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  forge  a  life-long  trouble  for  ourselves 
By  taking  true  for  false,  or  false  for  true ; 
Here  through  the  feeble  twilight  of  this  world 
Groping,  Low  many  until  we  pass  and  reach 
That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are  seen." 

And  again  where   the  "Lissome  Vivien" 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  177 

attemps  to  slander  the  blameless  king,  Mer 
lin  exclaims : 

"  O,  my  liege  and  king  1 
O,   sinless  man  and  stainless  gentlemaiii 
Wlio  would'st  against  their  own  eye-witness  fain 
Have  all  men  true  and  leal,  all  women  pure; 
How  in  the  mouth  of  base  interpreters, 
From  over-fineness  not  intelligible, 
To  things  with  every  sense  as  false  and  foul 
As  the  poached  fiU.li  that  floods  the  middle  street, 
Is  thy  •white  blarudessness  accounted  blame?" 

The  desertion  of  false  friends  in  the  hour 
of  need  is  portrayed  in  the  same  style 
The  prince  Geraint  encounters  and  vanishes 
the  wild  count  Limours.  His  followers, 
seeing  him  stunned  or  dead,  "  rush  on  or 

follow  with  the  route  behind:" 

12 


178  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

"But  at  the  flash  and  motion  of  the  man 
They  vanished  panic-stricken,  like  a  shoal 
Of  darting  fish  that  on  a  summer  morn 
Adown  the  crystal  docks  at  Camelot 
Come  slipping  o'er  the  shadows  on  the  sand, 
But  if  a  man  who  stands  upon  the  brink 
But  lift  a  shining  hand  against  the  sup, 
There  is  not  left  a  twinkle  of  a  fin 
Betwixt  the  cressy  islets  white  in  flower; 
So  scared  but  at  the  motions  of  the  man, 
Fled  all  the  boon  companions  of  the  earl, 
And  left  him  lying  in  the  public  way; 
So  vanish  friendships  only  made  in  wine. 


The  descriptions  that  follow  in  this  noble 
poem,  one  of  "  The  Idyls  of  a  king/''  are  so 
fine,  and  many  of  them  so  applicable  to 
the  comparison  above  made,  that  it  may  be 
interesting  to  insert  them.  But 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  179 

"  Geraint  being  pricked 
In  combat  with  the  followers  of  Liinours 
Bled  underneath  his  armor  secretly. 
And  Eniel  heard  the  clashing  of  his  fall, 
Suddenly  came  and  at  his  side  all  pale, 
Dismounting,  loosed  the  fastenings  of  his  arms, 
Nor  let  her  true  hand  falter,  nor  blue  eye 
Moisten,  till  she  had  lighted  on  his  wound, 
And  tearing  off  her  veil  of  faded  silk, 
And  bared  her  forehead  to  the  blistering  sun, 
Ajid  swathed  the  hurt  that  drained  her  dear  lord's 

life. 

Then  after  all  was  done  that  hand  could  do 
6he  rested,  and  her  desolation  came 
Ufun  her,  and  she  wept  beside  the  way. 

Now  while  she  watched  and  prayed  for 
his  swoon  to  pass,  the  huge  and  brutal  earl 
of  Doorm 

"  Broad-fcwed  with  under  face  of  russet  beard, 
Bound  on  a  foray,  rolling  eyes  oi  prey, 


180  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

Came  riding  with  a  hundred  lances  up 
But  ere  he  came,  like  one  that  hails  a  ship, 
Cried  out  with  a  big  voice,  "  What,  is  he  dead ! " 

He   commands   Geraint  to   be   carried   to 
his  hall.     The  earl  of  Doorm 

"  Struck  with  a  knife's  haft  hard  against  the  board, 
And  called  for  flesh  and  wine  to  feed  his  spears. 
And  men  brought  in  whole  hogs  and  quarter  beeves, 
And  all  the  hall  was  dim  with  steam  of  flesh; 
And  none  spake  a  word,  but  all  sat  down  at  once, 
And  ate  with  tumult  in  the  naked  hall, 
Feeding  like  horses,  when  you  hear  them  feed. 
"He  spoice.  the  brawny  spearman  let  his  cheek 
Bulge  with  the   unswallowed  piece,  and  turning, 
stared.' 

Eniei  scorns  his  proffered  courtesies,  and 
maddened  with  his  rage,  he  cries: 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  181 

"  I  count  it  of  no  more  avail. 
Dame,  to  be  gentle  than  ungentle  with  you; 
Take  my  salute.     Unkniglitly  with  flat  hand, 
However  lightly  smote  her  on  the  check. 

"This  heard  Geraint,  and  grasping  at  his  sword 
(It  lay  beside  him  in  the  hollow   shield.) 
Made  but  a  single  bound,  and  with  a  sweep  of  it 
Shore  through  the  swarthy  neck,  and  like  a  ball, 
The  russet-bearded  head  rolled  on  the  floor." 

Then  in  the  confusion  and  the  din  of 
men  and  women  flying  from  before  the  face 
of  him,  wnom  they  accounted  dead,  Geraint 
and  Eniel  passed  from  out  that  baleful 
place: 

"  He  mounted  on  a  horse,  reached   a  hand,  and  on 

his  foot 

She  set  her  own  and  climbed ;  he  turned  his  face 
A.nd  kissed  her  climbing,  and  she  cast  her  arm.3 
A-bout  him,  and  at  once  they  rode  away." 


182  ALFKED   TENNYSON. 

If,  as  has  been  said,  Tennyson  nursed 
his  muse  at  the  pure  fount  of  Shakspeare 
and  of  Dante,  were  it  not  wise  to  add  the 
whole  world  of  poesy  was  his  mother,  for 
in  himself  he  so  often  seems  to  reproduce 
each  different  poet  in  his  happiest  mood. 
What  follows  is  as  strictly  Homeric  as  if 
found  in  the  pages  of  the  Iliad: 

— "The  new  sun 

Beat  through  the  Mindless-casement  of  the  room, 
And  heated  the  strong  warrior  in  his  dreams, 
Who,  moving,  cast  the  coverlet  aside, 
And  bared  the  knoted  column  of  his  throat, 
The  massive  square  of  his  heroic  breast, 
And  arms  on  which  the  standing  muscle  sloped, 
As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a  little  stone, 
Running  too  vehemently  to  break  upon  it." 

Another: 


ALFRED  TENNYSON.  183 

"He  dragged  his  eye-brow  bushes  down,  and  mado 
A  snowy  pent-house  for  his  eyes." 


Our  own  Bryant,  in  the  full  burst  of  his 
gleeful  heart,  when  escaping  from  the  tur 
moil  and  drudgery  of  his  outAvard  active 
life,  he  found  himself  reveling  in  the  world 
of  nature,  never  uttered  sentences  more 
deliciously  sweet  than  the  following: 


"  From  the  woods 

Came  voices  of  the  well-contented  doves; 
The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes  for  joy, 
But  shook  his  song  together  as  he  neared 
His  happy  home,  the  ground.    To  left  and  right 
The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the  hills; 
TLe  mellow  owzel  fluted  in  the  elm; 
The  red-cap  whistled;  and  the  nightingale 
Sang  loud  as  though  he  were  the  bird  of  day." 


ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

This  simple  advocacy  of  the  natural  and 
the  true  must  find  admirers  wherever  the 
imagination  of  the  heart  is  not  vitiated  by 
the  unhealthy  and  flashy  literature  which, 
unfortunately  for  our  day,  is  such  a  popular 
and  current  commodity.  "It  is  calculated  to 
cool  the  fevered  blood  and  lead  us  to  the 
fountains  that  go  softly."  This  and  more 
the  simple  and  eloquent  bard  of  "  Ryclal 
Mount"  did  in  his  day  for  English  litera 
ture.  This  mysterious  and  wonderful  flow 
of  versification,  when  it  takes  simply  the 
idiosyncracies  of  the  poet,  induces  elements 
of  expression  peculiar  to  its  possessor.  This 
is  particularly  remarkable  in  Mrs.  Brown 
ing  and  Tennyson.  It  is  the  quality  which 
oftens  earns  for  him  the  appellation  of 
wordy.  A  cursory  observer  would  almost 
be  sure  to  pass  this  verdict.  But  will  not 


ALFRED  TENNYSON.  185 

the  few  extracts  culled  from  a  garden  rich 
in  poetic  wealth,  serve  in  part  to  refute  the 
imputation.  In  the  descriptions  of  the  dif 
ferent  styles  of  beauty  there  occurs  a 
wonderful  variety  in  the  mode  of  delivery. 
"  Eleanor,  the  beauty  of  thought;" 

"  Sometimes  with  most  intensity 

Gazing,  I  seem  to  see 

Thought  folded  over  thought,  smiling  asleep, 

Slowly  awakened,  grow  so  large  and  deep 

In  thy  large  eyes  that,   overpowered  quite, 

I  cannot  veil  or  droop  my  sight, 

But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light; 

As  though  a  star  in  inmost  heaven  set, 

Even  Avhile  we  gaze  on  it, 

Should  slowly  round  the  earth,  and  slowly  grow, 

To  a  full  face,  there  like  a  sun  remain 

Fixed — then  as  slowly  fade  again, 

And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was  before; 

So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow, 


186  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 

In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleanore." 

"  Madeline,  the  ever  varying: " 

"  Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 

Light-glooming  over  eyes  swim, 

Like  little  clouds  sun-fringed  are  thine, 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 
•Thy  smiles  and  frowns  are  not  aloof 

From  one  another — 
Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother; 
Thus  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other, 

All  the  mystery  is  thine; 
Smiling,  frowning  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love  lore, 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 

"The  sleeping  beauty: 

"Year  after  year  unto  her  ieet, 
She  lying  on  her  couch  alone, 


ALFRED  TENNYSON.  187 

Across  the  purple  coverlet 

The  maiden's  jet  black  hair  has  grown. 
On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth  streaming  from  a  braid  of  pearl; 
The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  warm, 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 

"  She  sleeps ;  her  breathings  are  not  heard, 

In  palace  chamber  far  apart, 
The  fragrant  tresses  arc  not  stirred 

That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart ; 
She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 

A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest." 

In  the  heart  struggle  depicted  so  glowingly 
in  the  poem  of  "  Love  and  Duty,"  there  are 
passages  of  tenderness  and  strength,  hope 
and  despair,  that  one  cannot  read  unmoved, 
or  without  yielding  his  meed  of  admiration 
and  sympathy, 


188  ALFRED   TJENNYSOX. 

"  Of  love  that  never  found  its  earthly  close 

What  sequel  ?     Streaming  eyes  and  breaking  hearts  ? 

Or  all  the  same  as  if  it  had  not  been? 

"  "Will  some  one  say,  then  why  not  ill  for  good  ? 

Why  took  ye  not  your  pastime?     To  that  man 

My  work  shall  answer,  since  I  knew  the  right  ? 

And  did  it ;  for  a  man  is  not  as  God, 

But  then  most  Godlike  being  most  a  man. 

So  let  me  think  'tis  well  for  thee  and  me — 

Ill-fated  that  I  am,  what  love  is  mine, 

Whose  foresight  preaches  peace,  my  heart  so  slow 

To  feel  it.    For  how  hard  it  seemed  to  me 

When  eyes  love   languid  through  half  tears   would 

dwell 

One  earnest,  earnest  moment  upon  mine, 
111  the  wheels  of  time 
Spun. round  in  station,  but  the  end  had  come. 

"  O  then,  like  those  who  clench  their  nerves  to 

rush 
Upon  this  dissolution  we  two  rose, 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  189 

There — closing  like  an  individual  life — 
In  one  blind  cry  of  passion  and  of  pain, 
Like  bitter  accusation  even  to  death, 
Caught  up  the  whole  of  love  and  uttered  it, 
And  bade  adieu  forever." 

Some  passages  in  the  "  Talking  Oak," 
arc  very  beautiful,  he  makes  the  old  tree 
"garrulously  given,"  speaks  thus  of  Olivia, 
when  Walter  asks : 

"  If  ever  maid  or  spouse, 
As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 
To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs." 

After  saying  sho  is  three  times  worth 
the  all  who  flourished  in  times  of  hood 
and  hoop,  or  while  the  patch  was  worn. 
He  thus  runs  on : 

"The  day  was  warm, 
At  last,  tired  out  with  play, 


190  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

She  sank  her  head  upon  my  arm, 
And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 

"  Her  eyelids  dropped  their  silken  eaves, 

I  breathed  upon  her  eyes, 
Through  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 

A  welcome  mixed  with  sighs. 

"1  took  the  swarming  sound  of  life — 
The  music  from  the  town — 

The  whispers  of  the  drum  and  fife, 
And  lulled  them  in  my  own. 

"Sometimes  I  let  a  sunbeam  slip 

To  light  her  shaded  eye; 
A  second  fluttered  round  her  lip, 

Like  a  golden  butterfly. 

A  third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck, 
To  make  the  necklace  shine, 

Another  slid  a  sunny  fleck, 
From  head  to  ankle  fine. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  191 

Then  close  and  ck;'t  my  arms  I  spread, 

And  shadowed  all  her  rest ; 
Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head, 

An  acorn  in  her  breast. 

The  poem  of  "  St.  Agnes  "  gives  us  another 
distinct  style  of  composition,  and  from  all 
we  know  of  the  sweet  saint,  is  a  faithful 
portraiture  : 

ST.    AGNES. 

Deep  on  the  convent  roof  the  snows, 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon ; 
My  breath  to  Heaven  like  vapor  goes, 

May  my  soul  follow  soon ! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent  towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  mv  Lord- 


192  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snow-drop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosoin  lies. 
As  these  white  robes  are  soiled  and  dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground, 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Creak  up  the  Heavens,  O  Lord!  and  far 

Through  all  yon  starlight  keen, 
~Draw  me,  Thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors, 

The  flashes  come  and  go; 
All  Heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

"And  strews  her  lights  below; 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  193 

And  deepens  on  and  up !  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  Sabbaths  of  eternity, 

One  Sabbath  deep  and  wide, 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea — 

The  bridegroom  with  his  bride  ! " 

The  following  is  from  Ulysses  : 

"I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  where  through 

Gleams  that  untraveled  world  whose  margin  fades 

Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 

To  rest  unburnished  not  to  shine  in  use ! 

As  though  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled  on  lifo 

"Were  all  too  little  and  of  one  to  me 

Little  remains;  but  every  hour  is  saved 

From  that  eternal  silence  something  more, 
13 


194  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

A  bringer  of  new  things,  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
So  follow  knowledge  like  a  shining  star 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

We  sometimes  find  sly  veins  of  humor  in 
Tennyson,  a  sort  of  facetiousness  that  re 
minds  us  of  Hood.  In  Will  Waterproof's 
Lyrical  monologue  we  find  the  following: 

"  Head-waiter  of  the  chop-house  here, 

To  which  I  most  resort, 
I  too  must  part:  I  hold  thee  dear 

For  this  good  pint  of  port. 
For  this,  thou  shalt  from  all  things  suck 

Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter; 
And,  wheresoever  thou  move,  good  luck 

Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  195 

"But  thou  wilt  never  movo  from  hence, 

The  sphere  thy  fate  allots: 
Thy  latter  days  increased  with  pence, 

Go  down  among  the  pots: 
Thou  batteuest  by  the  greasy  gleam 

In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners, 
Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 

Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

"We  fret,  we  fume,  would  shift  our  skins, 

Would  quarrel  with  our  lot ; 
Thy  care  is,  under  polished  tins, 

To  serve  the  hot-and-hot; 
To  come  and  go,  and  come  again, 

Returning  like  the  pewit, 
And  watched  by  silent  gentlemen, 

That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 

"  Live  long,  e're  from  thy  topmost  head 

The  thick-set  hazel  dies; 
Long,  'ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  tread 
The  corners  of  thine  eyes; 


196  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 

Our  changeful  equinoxes, 
Till  mellow  Death,  like  some  late  guest, 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  boxes. 

"But  when  he  calls,  and  thou  shall  cease 

To  pace  the  gritted  floor, 
And,  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 

Of  life,  shall  earn  no  more. 
No  carved  cross-bones,  the  types  of  Death, 

Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven ; 
But  carved  cross-pipes,  and,  underneath, 

A  pint-pot,  neatly  graven." 

In  "Maud,"  he  gives  us  the  picture  of  a 
nonchalant  gentleman  : 

"  But  while  I  passed  he  was  humming  an  air, 
Stopt,  and  then  with  a  riding-whip 
Leisurely  tapping  a  glossy  boot, 
And  curving  a  contumelious  lip, 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  197 

Gorgonized  me  from  head  to  foot 
With  a  <stony  British  stare." 

He  gives   us  the  worth  of  a  vote  in  the 
same  poem : 

"  What,  if  he  had  told  her  ycster  morn, 
How  prettily  for  his  own  sweet  sake, 
A  face  of  tenderness  might  be  feigned, 
And  a  moist  mirage  in  desert  eyes, 
That  so,  when  the  rotton  hustings  shake, 
In  another  month,  to  his  brazen  lies 
A  wretched  vote  may  be  gained." 

In   "  Aubrey  Court "   we  have  a  descrip' 
tive  feast  in  the  pic-nic  style : 

"There  on  a  slope  of  orchard,  Francis  laid 
A  damask  napkin,  wrought  with  horse  and  hound, 
Brought  out  a  dusky  loaf  that  smelt  of  home, 
And,  half  cut  down,  a  pasty,  costly  made, 


198  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Where  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  hornet  lay, 
Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden,  yolks 
Imbedded  and  injellied;  last,  with  these 
A  flask  of  cider  from  his  father's  vats, 
Prime,  which  I  knew;    and  so  we  sat  and  eat, 
And  talked  old  matters  over." 

Among  Tennyson's  poems,  "  In  Memoriam/ 
I  find  a  beautiful  epithalamium,  supposed 
to  be  inscribed  to  his  daughter,  a  copious 
extract  must  supply  the  place  of  the  entire 
poem,  it  being  too  long  for  insertion. 

"Regret  is  dead,   but  love  is  more 

Than  in  the  summers  that  are  flown, 
For  I  myself  with  these  have  grown 
To  something  greater  than  before  ; 

"Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I  made 
As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times, 
As  half  but  idij  brawling  rhymes, 
The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON.  199 

"But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 
That  must  be  made  a  wife  'ere  noon  ? 
She  enters,  glowing  with  the  moon 
Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower. 

"On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes 

And  then  on  thee;  they  meet  thy  look, 
And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 
Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

"Oh!  when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud,  • 
He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose. 
For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she  grows, 
Forever,  and  is  fair  as  good. 

"And  thou  art  worthy,  full  of  power; 
As  gentle,  liberal-minded,  great, 
Consistent,  wearing  all  that  weight 
Or  leaning  lightly  like  a  flower. 

"But  now  set  out :  the  noon  is  near, 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride, 


200  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 
And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear. 

"For  I  that  danced  her  on  iny  knee, 
That  watched  her  on  her  nurse's  arm, 
That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm, 
At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee; 

"  Now  waiting  to  be  made  a  wife, 
Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead; 
Their  pensive  tablets  'round  her  head, 
And  the  most  living  words  of  life 

"Breathed  in  her  ear.    The  ring  is  on, 
The  'wilt  thou'  answered,  and  again 
The  'wilt  thou'  asked,  till  out  of  twain, 
Her  sweet  'I  will'  has  made  ye  one. 

"Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be  read, 
Mute  symbols  of  a  joyful  morn, 
By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn; 
The  names  are  signed  and  overhead 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  201 

"  Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 
The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze  ; 
The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the*  trees 
The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

"O!  happy  hour!  behold  the  bride 

With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I  gave. 
They  leave  the  porch,  they  pass  the  grave 
That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side.''^ 


202  THE   RELIC   OF   HAIR. 


THE  RELIC  OF  HAIR. 


This  golden  link  of  sunny  hair 

Is  all  that's  left  of  one, 
That,  like  some  bright  and  shining  star, 

Around  our  pathway  shone; 
'Twas  parted  from  her  fair  young  brow, 

Ere  death  had  set  his  seal 
On  all  the  bright  and  happy  flow 

Which  love  and  hope  reveal. 

Years  in  their  silent  course  have  fled 
Since  in  thy  youth  and  bloom, 

With  all  our  love  around  thee  flung, 
They  laid  thee  in  the  tomb; 

But  still  thy  laugh  trills  on  my  ear, 
Thy  form  goes  floating  by 


THE    GELIC    OF    HAIR.  203 

As  vividly  in  memory 
As  when  it  met  my  eye. 

Oh  golden  tress !  that  wakes  the  past, 

Too  life-like  in  my  heart, 
Where  are  those  sister  ringlets  now, 

Of  which  thou  formed  a  part  ? 
Time  hath  not  dimmed  its  lustrous  sheen, 

Though  death  has  robbed  the  form 
Of  all  the  graces  which  it  wore 

In  life's  bewitching  morn? 


But  though  thy  tones  no  more  may  fall, 

Like  music,  on  my  ear, 
This  golden  link  shall   bid  the  heart 

Forever  hold  thee  dear. 
For,  oh !  it  is  a  part  of  thce, 

And  well  recalls  the  spell 
Whose  vivid  power  on  my  heart 

Denies  a  last  farewell. 


204  "DEAR  MAMMA,"  ETC. 


"DEAR  MAMMA,  I  AM  NEVER  AFRAID 
IN  THE  DARK ;  ANGELS  ARE  IN 
THE  DARK." 


Yes,  when  the  shadow  falleth, 
An  angels  hovers  near, 

To  guard  thy  little  footsteps, 
So  Maggie  need  not  fear. 

And  watching  o'er  her  pillow, 
And  by  her  cradled  bed, 

From  silent  morn  till  even, 
His  wings  are  ever  spread. 

You  do  not  know  his  coming, 
You  do  not  feel  him  near, 


"DEAR   MAMMA,"   ETC.  205 

But  'tis  he,  my  little  darling, 
That  wipes  away  the  tear. 

By  whispering  words  of  comfort, 

By  urging  some  redress, 
He  heals  the  little  sorrow 

That  fills  my  Maggie's  breast. 

Then  love  your  guardian  angel, 

As  God's  especial  friend, 
He  comes,  a  special  messenger, 

Your  footsteps  to  attend. 


206  TO  T.  H.  D. 


TO    T.  H.  D. 


My  husband,  take  this  little  flower, 
And  fold  him  to  thy  breast, 

Look  on  his  baby  face  and  see 
Thy  lineaments  imprest. 

Oh  !  smile  upon  our  little   child, 
He  comes  to  comfort  thee, 

To  fill  a  void  within  thy  heart, 
God's  blessing  on  him  be. 

I  ask  for  this  last  precious  one 
No  wreath  or  titled  fame, 

But  that  he  bear  in  noble  worth 
Thy  dear  and  honored  name, 


TO   T.  IT.  D.  207 


Oh!  for  this  last  best  benison, 
Which  God  to  us  hath  given, 

May  plenitude  of  grace  be  sent, 
To  tit  his  soul  lor  Heaven. 


208  PRETTY   BIRDLIXG. 


PRETTY  BIRDLING. 


Little  bird,  so  blithe  and  gay, 
Tilting  on  the  slender  spray, 
Who  so  happy,  free  as  you, 
Sipping  pearls  of  morning  dew? 

Tell  ine,  pretty  birdie,  why 
You  have  left  your  home  so  high, 
In  yon  spreading  apple  tree 
And  are  here  so  close  to  me. 

So  near  I  watch  the  expanding  throat, 
Almost  bursting  with  its  note, 
Praising  Him  who  rules  alway, 
For  thy  short-lived  summer  day. 


PRETTY   BIRDLING.  209 

Grateful  for  thy  little  store, 
Never  murmuring  thou  for  more, 
Yet  some  wanton,  cruel  boy 
In  a  moment  may  destroy. 

All  thy  joys,  and  scatter  wide 
The  home  which  love  and  skill  provide, 
And  thou  to  fill  the  bag  of  game, 
Fall  victim  to  the  sportsman's  aim. 

Let  man,  endowed,  with  reason — sense, 
Likened  to  omnipotence, 
Murmuring  e'er  at  God's  decree, 
Learn  the  lesson  taught  by  thee! 


210  JOHN   KEAT3. 


JOHN    KEATS. 


All  that  the  imagination  can  conceive  of 
a  poet  is  to  be  found  in  the  beautiful  por 
trait  of  Keats.  The  high,  intellectual  fore 
head,  with  its  clustering  curls,  those  dreamy 
eyes,  the  saddened  expression  which  appears 
to  premise  a  future,  ever  casting  its  shadow 
before,  would  seem  to  excite  the  sympathy 
as  well  as  admiration  of  the  beholder.  Born 
in  obscurity,  with  surroundings  that  would 
vulgarize  an  ordinary  mind,  he,  by  the 
force  of  the  "  divine  within  him,"  raised 
himself  above  all  obstacles  to  a  recognition 
high,  even  among  the  gifted  of  the  land. 


JOHN   KEATS.  211 

Those  impediments  or  barriers  which  might 
deter  one  less  earnest  were  to  him  incen 
tives.  He  felt  himself  to  be  the  arbiter 
of  his  own  destiny,  and  he  labored  with 
a  manly  independence  and  a  lofty  deter 
mination  to  win  for  himself  the  glory  of 
the  poet's  bay.  His  life  was  circled  in 
the  short  span  of  twenty-four  years.  The 
seeds  of  disease  were  sown  in  his  in 
fancy.  His  days  were  a  struggle  between 
weakness  of  body  and  vigor  of  intellect 
(averse  as  this  may  be  to  the  popular  idea 
of  corporeal  sympathy,  it  was  in  his  case 
nevertheless  true),  and  yet  he  determined 
to  follow  the  path  of  his  choice,  to  Avin  for 
himself  that  position  from  which  his  lowly 
lot  would  seem  to  debar  him. 

Keats  is  best  known  to  us  as  the  author 
of  "  Endyrnion  "  and  "  St.  Agnes'  Eve;"  either 


212  JOHN   KEATS. 

one  is  an  immortality.  The  opening  of 
"  Endymion "  is  an  earnest  of  the  whole. 
As  a  proof  of  its  beauty,  the  first  line  is  a 
popular  quotation  : 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever : 

Its  loveliness  increases,  it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness,  but  still  will  keep 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams  and  health  and  quiet  breathing." 

The  pleasure  of  his  muse  is  told  in  what 
follows : 

"  Therefore,  ?tis  with  full  happiness  that  I 
Will  trace  the  story  of  Endymion. 
The  very  music  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  valleys ;  so  I  will  begin 


JOHN  KEATS.  213 

Now,  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din; 
Now  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
About  old  forests;  while  the  willow  trails 
In  delicate  ambers,  and  the  dairy  pails 
Bring  home  increase  of  milk.     And  as  the  year 
Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I'll  smoothly  steer 
My  little  boat  for  many  quiet  hours, 
With  streams  that  deepen  freshly  into  bowers. 
Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write 
Before  the  daisies,  vermeil  riniui'd  and  white, 
Hide  in  deep  herbage,  and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet  peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
O,  may  no  wintry  season  bare  and  hoary 
See  it  half  finished  ;  but  let  autumn  bold, 
With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold, 
Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 
And  now  at  once  adventuresome  I  send 
My  herald  thoughts  into  a  wilderness; 
There  let  its  trumpet  blow  and  quickly  dress 


214  JOHN   KEATS. 

My  uncertain  path  with  green,  that  I  may  speed 
Easily  onward  through  flowers  and  weed." 

The  muse  of  Keats  found  a  convenient 
outpouring  in  the  broad  field  of  Grecian  my 
thology.  Here  he  felt  free  to  give  utterance 
to  his  thoughts.  He  need  not  conform  to 
aught  but  the  ideal,  and  he  reveled  in  the 
beauties  which  his  own  warm  fancy  and 
imagination  could  create.  This  Avas  his  bias. 
But  as  a  profound  thinker  on  this  subject  has 
asserted,  "To  every  poetical  mind  there 
seems  to  be  a  peculiar  nucleus  for  thought. 
The  sympathies  flow  in  some  particular  direc 
tion  ;  and  the  glow  and  imagery  of  song  are 
excited  in  a  certain  manner,  according  to  indi 
vidual  taste  and  character.  To  Scott  chival 
ry  and  all  its  associations  were  inspiring  ; 
to  Wordsworth  abstract  nature.  Cowper 


jonx  REALS.  215 

loved  to  group  his  feelings  and  fancies  round 
some  moral  truth ;  and  Pope  to  weave 
into  verse  the  phenomena  of  social  life,"  to 
Keats  we  must  assign  the  empire  of  Grecian 
mythology.  From  the  world  of  ideality  he 
gives  us  the  most  beautiful  sentiments, 

There  are 

Richer  entanglements,  enthrallments  far 
More  self  destroying,  leading  by  degrees 
To  the  chief  intensity;  the  crown  of  these 
Is  made  of  love  and  friendship,  and  sits  high 
Upon  the  forehead  of  humanity. 
All  its  more  ponderous  and  bulky  worth 
Is  friendship,  whence  there  ever  issues  forth 
A  steady  splendor;  but  at  the  tip-top 
There  hangs,  by  unseen  film,  an  orbed  drop 
Of  light,  and  that  is  love ;   its  influence 
Thrown  in  our  eyes  genders  a  novel  sense, 
At  which  we  start  and  fret,  till  in  the  end 


216  JOHN  KEATS: 

Melting,  into  its  radiance  we  blend, 
Mingle  and  so  become  a  part  of  it. 
Nor  with  aught  else  can  our  souls  interknit 
So  wingedly;  when  we  combine  therewith 
Life's  self  is  nurtured  by  its  proper  pith, 
And  AVC  are  nurtured  like  a  pelican  brood. 

Endymion  in  his  wandering  meets  a  Naiad, 
who  guides  him  on  his  way,  and  leaving 
him,  says  : 

Could  I  weed 

Thy  soul  of  care,  by  heavens !  I  would  offer 
All  the  bright  riches  of  my  crystal  coffer 
To  Amphetrite;  all  my  clear-eyed  fish, 
Golden  or  rainbow-sided  or  purplish, 
Vermillion.  tail'd  or  finn'd  with  silvery  gauze  • 
Yea,  or  my  varied  pebbled  floor  that  draws 
A  virgin  light  to  the  deep  ^  my  grotto  sands, 
Tawny  and  gold  oozed  slowly  from  far  lands 
By  my  diligent  springs ;  my  level  lilies,  shells, 
My  charming  rod,  my  potent  river  spells. 


JOHN  KEATS.  217 

Yes,  everything,  even  to  the  pearly  cup 

Meander  gave  me;  for  I  bubbled  up 

To  fainting  creatures  in  a  desert  wild. 

But  wo  is  me,  I  am  but  as  a  child 

To  gladden  thee,  and  all  I  dare  to  say 

Is  that  I  pity  thee,  that  on  this  day 

I've  been  thy  guide ;  that  thou  must  wander  far 

In  other  regions,  past  the  scanty  bar 

To  mortal  steps,  betore  thou  canst  be  ta'en 

From  every  wasting  sigh,  from  every  pain, 

Into  the  gentle  bosom  of  thy  love. 

Why  it  is  thus,  one  knows  ia  Heaven  above, 

But  a  poor  Naiad,  I  guess  not.     Farewell! 

I  have  a  ditty  for  my  hollow  cell. 

Imagination  is  lavish  of  her  wealth  in 
this  as  in  all  the  works  of  Keats.  In  his 
preface  to  Endyrnion,  he  says,  after  depre 
cating  the  attempt  to  forestall  criticism : 
"  The  imagination  of  a  boy  is  healthy,  and 


218  JOHN   KEATS. 

the  mature  imagination  of  a  man  is  healthy; 
but  there  is  a  space  of  life  between  in 
which  the  soul  is  in  a  ferment,  the  charac 
ter  undecided,  the  way  of  life  uncertain, 
the  ambition  thick-sighted;  thence  proceeds 
mawkishness  and  all  the  thousand  bitters 
which  those  men  I  speak  of  must  neces-. 
sarily  taste  in  going  over  the  following 
pages.  I  hope  I  have  not  in  too  late  a 
day  touched  the  beautiful  mythology  of 
Greece,  and  dulled  its  brightness,  for  I 
wish  to  try  once  more  before  I  bid  it  fare- 


The  critic  of  the  day,  Gifford,  declared 
his  intention  of  attacking  Endymion,  even 
before  it  appeared  in  print.  The  effect  of 
this  unsparing  vituperation  upon  a  morbid 
state  of  body  may  easily  be  imagined.  His 
being  bom  in  a  livery  stable,  and  the  hum- 


JOHN   KEATS.  219 

ble  nature  of  his  early  antecedents,  were 
crimes  too  great  to  be  overlooked  by  lordly 
rhymers  and  lofty  reverencers.  His  spirit 
was  gentle,  although  his  soul  was  strong, 
and  he  bore  within  himself,  quietly  and 
uncomplainingly,  the  obloquies  and  ridicule 
which  they  attempted  to  cast  upon  his 
name.  It  is  true,  his  education,  so  far  as 
scholastic  teaching  Avas  concerned,  was  con 
fined  to  a  plain,  unpretending  school  at 
Enfield  ;  but  nature  compensated  with  her 
gratuitous  gifts  for  want  of  fortune,  and  it 
was  conceded  by  unprejudiced  minds  that 
he  possessed  more  exhuberance  of  fancy, 
more  facility  of  description,  than  many  of 
the  best  English  poets  of  his  day. 

They  must  indeed  be  insensible  who  feel 
not  the  poetic  excellence  and  beauty  of 
some  of  the  following  extracts,  selected  at 
hatfnrd  : 


220  JOHN   KEATS. 

Time,  that  aged  muse, 

Rocked  me  to  patience.    Now,  thank  gentle  heaven, 
The  things,  with  all  their  conifortings,  are  given 
To  my  down-sunken  hours ;   and  with  thee, 
Sweet  sister,  help  to  stem  the  ebbing"  sea 
Of  weary  life. 


O !  magic  sleep  !     O !   comfortable  bird, 
That  broodest  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  the  mind 
Till  it  is  hushed  and  smooth !     O !   unconfined, 
Restraint,  imprisoned  liberty,  great  key 
To  golden  palaces,  strange  minstrelsy, 
Fountains  grotesque,  new  trees,  bespangled  caves, 
Echoing  grottoes,  fall  of  tumbling  waves, 
And  moonlight;  ay,  to  all  the  mazy  world 
Of  silvery  enchantment;  who  unfurled 
Beneath  thy  drowsy  wing  a  triple  hour, 
But  renovates  and  lives. 


JOHN  KEATS.  221 

oudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushed  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot. 

Now,  indeed, 

His  senses  had  swooned  off;   he  did  not  heed 
The  sudden  silence  or  the  whispers  low, 
O-  the  old  eyes  dissolving  at  his  woe, 
Or  anxious  calls,  or  close  of  trembling  palms, 
Or  maiden's  sigh,  that  grief  itself  embalms. 


Do  not  all  charms  fly 
At  the  mere  touch  of  cold  philosophy? 
There  was  an  awful  rainbow  once  in  heaven ; 
"We  know  her  woof,  her  texture;  she  is  given 
In  the  dull  catalogue  of  common  things. 
Philosophy  will  clip  an  angel's  wings, 
Conquer  all  mysteries  by  rule  and  line, 
Empty  the  haunted  air,  the  gnomed  mine. 


222  JOHN  KEAT3. 

Of  wealthy  lustre  was  the  banquet  room, 
Filled  with  pervading  brilliance  and  perfnme; 
Before  each  lucid  panel  fuming  stood 
A  censor,  fed  with  myrrh  and  spiced  wood, 
Each  by  a  sacred  tripod  held  aloft, 
Whose  slender  feet  wide  swerved  upon  the  soft 
Wool  woofed  carpets.     Fifty  wreaths  of  smoke 
From  fifty  censors  their  light  voyage  took, 
To  the  high  roof,  still  mimicked  as  they  rose 
Along  the  mirror'd  walls,  by  twin  clouds  odorous. 
Twelve  sphered  tables,  by  silk  seats  ensphered, 
High  as  the  level  of  a  man's  breast,  reared 
On  libbard's  paws,  upheld  the  heavy  gold 
Of  cups  and  goblets,  and   the  store  thrice  told 
Of  Ceres  horn,  and  in  huge  vessels  wine 
Came  from  the  gloomy  tun  with  merry  shine. 


What  is  there  in  thee,  Moon,  that  thou  shouldst  move 

•My  heart  so  potently  ?    When  yet  a  child 

I  oft  have  dried  my  tears  when  thou  hast  smiled. 


JOHN   KEATS.  223 

Thou  seem'dst  my  sister:  hand  in  hand  we  went 
From  eve  to  morn  across  the  firmament. 
No  apples  would  I  gather  from  the  tree 

Till  thou  had'st  cooled  their  cheeks  deliciously: 

No  tumbling  water  ever  spake  romance 

But  when  my  eyes  with  thine  thereon  could  dance ; 

No  woods  were  green  enough,  no  bower  divine 
Until  thou  lifted'st  up  thine  eyeslids  fine ; 
In  sowing  time  ne'er  would  I  dibble  take, 
Or  drop  a  seed  till  thou  wast  wide  awake; 
And  in  the  summer-tide  of  blossoming 
No  one  but  thee  hath  heard  me  blithely  sing, 
And  mesh  my  dewy  flowers  all  the   night ; 
No  melody  was  like  a  passing  sprite 
It  I  went  not  to  solemnize  thy  reign. 
Yes,  in  my  boyhood,  every  joy  and  pain 
By  thee  were  fashion'd  to  the  self-same  aim ; 
As  I  grew  in  years,  still  did'st  thou  blend 
With  all  my  ardors:  thou  wast  the  deep  glen; 


224  JOHN  KEATS. 

Thou  wast  the  mountain-top — the  sage's  pen — 

The  poet's  harp — the  voice  of  friends — the  sun, 

Thou  wast  the  river — thou  wast  glory  won; 

Thou  wast  rny  clarion's  blast — thou  wast  my  steed — • 

My  goblet  full  of  wine — my  topmost  deed; 

Thou  wast  the  charm  of  woman,  lovely  Moon, 

O,  what  a  wild  and  harmonized  tune 

My  spirit  struck  from  all  the  beautiful! 

On  some  bright  essence  could  I  lean  and  lull 

Myself  to  immortality. 

Milne  tells  us  that  while  at  Enfield,  Keats' 
translations,  during  the  last  two  years  of  his 
stay,  were  astonishing.  The  twelve  books  of 
the  Eneid  were  a  portion  of  it.  To  Tooke's 
Pantheon,  Spence's  Polymetis  and  Sem- 
priese's  Dictionary,  we  are  indebted,  for 
his  deep  and  extended  knowledge  of  myth 
ology.  Of  the  Hyperion,  a  poem  full  of  the 
"  large  utterance  of  the  early  gods,"  Shelley 


JOHN  KEATS.  225 

has  said,  that  the  scenery  and  drawing  of 
Saturn  dethroned  by  the  fallen  Titans,  sur 
passed  those  of  Satan  and  his  rebellious 
angels  in  Paradise  Lost.  Keats  thought 
lightly  of  many  of  his  own  finest  produc 
tions.  His  "  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,"  which 
was  first  published  in  the  "Annals  of  Fine 
Arts,"  he  thrust  aside  as  waste  paper,  and 
some  difficulty  occurred  in  arranging,  from 
the  often  mutilated  fragments,  the  stanzas 
in  anything  like  order.  He  frequently  would 
chant,  in  a  sort  of  recitative,  those  that 
most  suited  his  fancy,  and  the  impression  of 
his  enthusiasm  and  manner  were  afterwards 
never  forgotten  by  those  who  were  privi 
leged  to  listen  to  him.  Of  his  "  St.  Agnes' 
Eve,"  he  thus  writes  to  his  brother  :  "  I  took 
down  some  thin  paper,  and  wrote  on  it — 

wrote  a  little   poem  called  St.  Agnes'  Evo 

15 


220  JOHN   KEATS. 

— which  you  will  have  as  it  is,  when  I 
have  finished  the  blank  part  of  the  rest 
for  you." 

Jeffrey  thus  criticises  this  gem  of  Eng 
lish  literature  :  —  "  The  glory  and  charm 
of  the  poem  is  the  description  of  the  fair 
maiden's  antique  chamber,  and  of  all  that 
passes  in  that  sweet  and  angel  guarded 
sanctuary,  every  part  of  which  is  touched 
with  colors  at  once  high  and  delicate,  and 
the  whole  chastened  and  harmonized  in  the 
midst  of  its  gorgeous  distinctness,  by  a 
pervading  grace  and  purity  that  indicate 
not  less  clearly  the  exaltation  than  the 
refinement  of  the  author's  fancy."  The 
poem,  though  long,  is  given  entire: 


JOHN    KEATS.  227 

THE   EVE   OF   ST.   AGNES. 


St.  Agnes'  Eve — ah,  bitter  chill  it  was ! 

The  owl,  for  all  his  leathers  was  a-cold  ; 

The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 

And  silent  was  the  (lock  in  woolly  fold  ; 

Numb  were  the  beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 

His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 

Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 

Seemed  taking  flight  for  Heaven  without  a  death, 

Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith. 

His  prayer  he  faith,  this  patient,  holy  man; 

Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 

And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 

Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees ; 

The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side  seem  to  freeze, 

Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  ; 

Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 

He  passeth  by  ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 

To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails 


228  JOHN  KEATS. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 

And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  music's  golden  tongue 

Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor  ; 

But  no,  already  had  his  death-bell  rung  ; 

The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung  ; 

His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve ; 

Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 

Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 

And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft' 
And  so  it  chanced  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.    Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  ?gan   to  chide  , 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests  ; 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 

With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on  their 
breast. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plumes,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 


JOHN  KEATS.  229 

Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 

The  brain,  new  stuff 'd,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 

Of  old  romance.    These  let  us  wish  away, 

And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 

"Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 

On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 

As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 

Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 

And  soft  adornings  from  their  loves  vcceive 

Upon  the  honey'd  middle  of  the  night, 

If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 

As  supperlcss  to  bed  they  must  retire, 

And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white  ; 

Nor  look  behin'l,  nor  sideways,  but  require 

Of  Heaven,  with  upward  eyes,  for  all  that  they  desire. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline ; 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard ;  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 


230  JOHN   KEATS. 

Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all ;  in  vain 

Came  many  a  tip-toe,  amorous  cavalier, 

And  back  retired ;  not  cooled  by  high  disdain, 

But  she  saw  not ;  her  heart  was  otherwhere  ; 

She  sigh-'d  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 

She  danced  along  with   vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short, 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand;  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng'd  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  fairy  fancy  ;  all  amost, 
Save  to  St.  Agues  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  the  morrow  morn. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 
She  linger'd  still.    Meantime  across  the  moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.    Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
AH  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 


JOHN   KEATS.  231 

But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen; 

Perchance,  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss— in  sooth  such  things 
have  been. 

He  ventures  in  :  let  no  buzz'd  whispers  tell* 
All  eyes  be  muffled  or  a  hundred  swords 
AVill  storm  his  heart,  love's  feverous  citadel 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl, 
Against  his  lineage  ;  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldixme,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 

Ah,  happy  chance !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  bsyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland; 
He  startled  her;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasp %d  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 


232  JOHN   KEATS, 

Saying,  "  Mercy,  Prophyro !  Me  thee  from  this  place, 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood-thirsty  race! 

"Get  hence!  get  hence!  there's  dwarfish  Hildebrand; 

lie  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit, 

He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land; 

Then  there's  that  old  lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 

More  tame  for  his  grey  hairs — alas  me!  flit! 

Flit  like  a  ghost  away." — "Ah,  Gossip  dear, 

We're  safe  enough!  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 

And  tell  me  how." — "  Good  saints !  not  here,  not  here, 

Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier." 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume; 
And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well,  a-well-a-day," 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  Oh  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  sacred  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 


JOHN  KEATS.  233 

"St.  Agnes!  ah!    it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve — 

Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days ; 

Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 

And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays. 

To  venture  so  ;  it  fills  me  with  amaze 

To  see  thee,  Porphyro!    St.  Agnes'  Eve! 

God's  help!  my  lady  fair,  the  conjuror  plays, 

This  very  night  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 

But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  mickle  time  to  grieve." 

Feebly  she  laughed  in  the  languid  moon, 

While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 

Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 

Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 

As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 

But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 

His  lady's  purpose ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 

Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 

And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  his  pained  heart 


234  JOHN   KEATS. 

Made  purple  riot ;  then  doth  he  propose 

A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldams  start : 

"A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art ; 

Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream, 

Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 

From  wicked  men  like  thee.    Go,  go !  I  deem 

Thou  canst  not  surely  be  same  that  thou  didst  seem/' 

{'I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro ;  "  0  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face. 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears  ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake  with  horrid  shout  my  foeman's  ears, 

And   beard    them,    though  they  be   more    fang'd    than 
wolves  and  bears." 

"Ah!  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 


JOHN   KEATS.  235 

Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
Were  never  miss'd.''    Thus  plaining  does  she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro  ; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep   sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  that  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  wo. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrscy, 

Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hido 

Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 

That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 

And  win,  perhaps,  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 

While  legion'd  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 

And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 

Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 

Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 

"It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame; 
"All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  the  feast-night:  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see:  no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 


236  JOHN  KEATS. 

On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience,  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while:  Ah !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear, 

The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd; 

The  dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 

To  follow  her;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 

From  fright  of  dim  especial.    Safe  at  last, 

Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 

The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd  and  chaste; 

Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 

His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade. 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.    Now  prepare, 


JOHN  KEATS.  231 


Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ; 

She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd  and 
fled. 


Out  went  the  taper,  as  she  hurried  in  ; 

Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died  ; 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 

To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide ; 

No  utter'd  syllable,  or,  wo  betide! 

But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 

Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side; 

As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 

Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled  in  her  dell. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was, 

All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 

Of  fruits  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 

And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 

Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 

As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep  damask'd  wings ; 

And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 

And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 

A  childlike  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  kings  and 
queens, 


238  JOHN   KEATS. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  secm'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven.     Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 

Anon  his  heart  revives ;  her  vespers  done, 

Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees : 

Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ; 

Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ;  by  degrees 

Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees : 

Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 

Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awako;  and  sees, 

In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 

But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay, 


JOHN   KEATS.  239 

Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought  until  the  morrow-day ; 
Blissfully  haveird  both  from  joy  and  pain; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 


Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced; 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listen'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 
Which,  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And  breathed  himself;  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween  the   curtains   peep'd,  where,  lo !  how   fast 
she  slept. 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 


240  JOHN  KEATS. 

A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 

A  cloth  of  woven  crimson  gold,  and  jet : — 

O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 

The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 

The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 

Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  : — 

The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd  ; 
With  jellies  smoother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrups,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one,, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver  :  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 


JOHN   KEATS.  241 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. 

"And  now,  my  love/  my  seraph  fair,  awake! 

Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 

Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 

Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache.'' 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains  :— 't  was  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam  ; 
Broad  golden,  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies ; 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes  ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  phantasies. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  call'd  "La  belle  dame  sans  merci," 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody ; 
Wherewith  disturb  M,  she  utter 'd  a  soft  moan ; 

16 


242  JOHN   KEATS. 

He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone ; 

Upon   his    knees   he    sank,  pale    as    smooth-sculptured 
stone. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 

Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep. 

There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expell'd 

The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep, 

At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 

And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh ; 

While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep  ; 

Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 

Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dreamingly. 

'•Ah,  Porphyro!"  said  she,  ''but  even  now 

Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 

Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow, 

And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear; 

How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear ! 

Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 

Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dearl 


JOHN  KEATS.  243 

Oh,  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 

For  if  thou  diest,  my  love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 

Beyond  a  mortal  man,  impassioned  far 

At  these  volumptuous  accents,  he  arose, 

Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 

Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose ; 

Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 

Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet, — 

Solution  sweet ;  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 

Like  Love's  alarm  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 

Against  the  window-panes  ;  St.  Agnes'  noon  hath  set. 

"Tis  dark ;  quick  pattereth  the  daw-blown  sleet ; 
"  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline !" 
'Tis  dark  ;  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat. 
"  No  dream,  alas  !   alas !   and  woe  is  mine ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine. 
Gruel!  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 


244  JOHN  KEATS. 

"My  Madeline!  sweet  dreamer!   lovely  bride! 

Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest? 

Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed? 

Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 

After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 

A  famished  pilgrim — saved  by  miracle. 

Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 

Saving  of  thy  sweet  self,  if  thou  think'st  well 

To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  inflde  J." 

"  Hark !  'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  fairy  land, 

Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed ; 

Arise !   arise !  the  morning  is  at  hand  ; 

The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed. 

Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 

There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see. 

Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead  ; 

Awake!  arise!  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 

For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 


JOHN  KEATS.  245 

r 

At  glaring  watch,  perhaps  with  ready  spears — 

Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found, 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 

A  chain-droop 'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door ; 

The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk  and  hound, 

FlutterM  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 

And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ; 

Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 

Where  lay  the  porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 

"With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  hig  side ; 

The  wakeful  blood-hound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide, 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns ; 

By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  ; 

The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  foot-worn  stones; 

The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 

And  they  are  gone ;  ay,  ages  long  ago, 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  wo, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 


246  JOHN  KEATS. 

• 

Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm. 
Were  long  be-nightmared.    Angela,  the  old, 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform ; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 

A  biographer  says :  "  It  was  the  inten 
tion  of  Keats  to  diffuse  the  coloring  of  'St. 
Agnes'  Eve '  throughout  a  poem  in  which 
character  and  sentiment  would  be  the  figures 
to  such  drapery."  He  did  not  live  to  carry 
out  this  plan.  The  quantity  of  his  writ 
ings  is  very  remarkable,  when  we  consider 
how  short  a  life  was  vouchsafed  him. 

Often  melancholy  from  his  failing  health, 
he  was  not  to  be  persuaded  from  the 
thought  of  an  early  death.  He  possessed 
in  a  remarkable  degree  that  self-prescience 
of  disease  which  stopped  for  days  together 


JOHN    KEATS.  247 

the  rich  stream  of  fancy  and  the  glowing 
imagery  of  thought.  He  said  once  to  his 
friend,  Mr.  Brown  :  "  Flatter  me  with  a  hope 
of  happiness  when  I  shall  be  well,  for  I  am. 
now  so  weak  that  I  can  be  flattered  into 
hope." 

In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Bailey,  he  says  :  "  I 
have  written  fifteen  hundred  lines  in  two 
months,  most  of  which,  besides  many  more 
of  prior  composition,  you  will  probably  see 
by  next  winter.  One  of  my  ambitions  is 
to  make  as  great  a  revolution  in  modern 
dramatic  writing  as  Kean  has  done  in  act 
ing.  I  am  convinced  every  day  that  (ex 
cepting  the  human-friend  philosopher,)  a  fine 
writer  is  the  most  genuine  being  in  the 
world.  Shakspeare  and  the  '  Paradise  Lost ' 
every  day  become  greater  wonders  to  me. 
I  look  upon  fine  phrases  like  a  lover." 


248  JOHN   KEATS. 

When   we  consider  what   this   noble   and 
gifted  son  of  poetry  might  have  been  had 
he  possessed  the  bodily  strength   so  neces 
sary  for   any  excellence    or   preferment,  we 
feel  still  more  the  almost  fiendish  injustice 
of  his  persecutors,  who,  with  insatiable  mo 
tive,  would    deprive   him   of   his    peace    of 
mind  and  discourage  all  attempts  at  future 
excellence.      Before    considering     their    at 
tacks,  it  is  almost   a   comfort  to  know   the 
character  of  his  enemies,  the  following  from 
a  reliable  source  :   "  The  reviewers  of  Black- 
wood  and  the   Quarterly  were  persons  evi 
dently  destitute  of  all  poetic  perception,  di 
recting  an  unrefined  and  unscrupulous  satire 
against  political  opponents,  whose  intellect 
ual  merits   they   had   no    means    of   under 
standing.     The  Quarterly  admits  that  he  had 
not  read,  or   could   not   read    the   work   he 


JOHN    KEATS.  249 

undertook   to   criticise.     This    impertinence 
should    have    prevented    the     article    from 
having  any  weight.     The  Blackwood  sought 
to    be    facetious,  and  tells   Keats,  "  It  is  a 
better    and    wiser   thing    to    be    a   starved 
apothecary,  (alluding  to  the  time  he  spent 
with  a  surgeon,)  than  a  starved  poet,"  and 
he  bids  him  "back  to  his  gallipot."      How 
bright    and    beautiful     by    contrast     shine 
forth    the    remarks   of   Jeffreys,  who,   after 
pointing  out  the  great  excellences  of  Endy- 
mion,  finishes  by  saying   we   do  not  know 
any  book  which  we   would   sooner  employ 
as  a  test  to  ascertain  whether  any  one  had 
in  him   a  native   relish    for    poetry  and    a 
genuine   sensibility  to    its   intrinsic   charm. 
Byron    regarded    this    praise    with    jealous 
discontent    at    first,    but    afterwards    says, 
"This  (Keats')  fragment  of  Hyperion  seems 


250  JOHN   KEATS. 

actually  inspired  by  the  Titians,  and  is  sub 
lime    as    Eschylus."      Shelley,    who    loved 
Keats  as  a  brother,  was  indignant  with  the 
Quarterly,  and   says    the   Endymion   should 
not  have  been  noticed  at  all,  except  for  the 
purpose    of    bringing    its    excellences    into 
notice,  and  continues:    "  I  speak  impartially, 
for  the  canons  of  taste  to  which  Keats  has 
conformed  in  his  other  compositions,  are  the 
very  reverse  of  my  own."    He  describes  the 
agony  of  the  poet  upon  reading  the  article 
in    question,  and   adds:    "It  has  induced   a 
disease  from  the  recovery  of  which  there  is 
but  little  hope."      Many  of  the   friends  of 
Keats   denied   such   effects   upon    his   mind 
and  system,  and   in  justification   quote  let 
ters  from  him  written  at  this  time. 

He  says  in  one  of   these  :    "  I   have  read 
the  papers,  and  feel  indebted  to  those  gen- 


JOHN   KEATS.  251 

tlemen  who  have  taken  my  part.  I  will 
write  independently.  I  have  done  so  per 
haps  without  judgment.  Hereafter  I  will 
write  independently,  with  judgment.  I  was 
never  afraid  of  failure,  for  I  would  sooner 
fail  than  not  to  be  among  the  greatest." 
This  certainly  does  not  sound  like  one  who 
takes  the  subject  much  to  heart ;  but  his 
brother  tells  us  :  "  After  all,  Blackwood  and 
the  Quarterly,  associated  with  our  family 
disease,  consumption,  were  ministers  of  death 
sufficiently  venomous,  cruel  and  deadly  to 
have  consigned  one  of  less  sensibility  to  a 
premature  grave." 

In  the  hope  of  prolonging  a  life  which 
was  consuming  itself  by  its  own  ardent 
longings,  Keats  embarked  for  Italy.  A  dear 
and  tender  friend  accompanied  him.  Soothed 
and  cheered  by  his  gentle  ministrations,  his 


JOHN  KEATS. 


life  ebbed  slowly  away.  When  vitality 
seemed  exhausted,  his  spirit  appeared  to 
rally  again  and  again  the  dying  energy  of 
his  nature,  and  re-animate  itself  in  death. 
Gentleness  and  submission,  patience  and 
resignation,  were  his  crowning  virtues,  and 
as  the  death  damps  were  gathering  on  his 
brow  he  whispered  to  his  friend  his  epi 
taph  :  "  My  name  was  writ  in  water."  A 
plain  white  stone  marks  the  last  resting 
place  of  this  young  and  gifted  son  of 
poetry.  Thither  has  many  a  pilgrimage 
been  taken.  The  last  recognition  has  "been 
freely  given  when  he  could  no  longer  be 
soothed  by  caresses  or  stimulated  by  ap 
proval,  and  now  — 

"  He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night, 
Envy  and  calumny,  and  hate  and  pain, 


JOHN  KEATS.  253 

And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again. 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in  vain. 
Nor  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn, 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  ail  unlanaented  urn." 


254  LA   SOEUR    DE   CHARITE. 


LA  SOEUR  DE  CHARITE. 


Whence  art  thou>   being  of  seraphic  mould, 
With  thy  calm  brow  and  deep  religious  eye, 
And  arms  thus  folded  on  thy  breast, 
Thy  mission  truly  coineth  from  the  sky 

What  love  divine,  what  charity  sublime, 

Didst  nerve  thy  purpose  and  inflame  thy  will, 

The  high  resolves  borne  in  that  sainted  face, 
An  added  zeal  in  every  breast  instil  ? 

Did'st  thou  not  leave  in  some  bright  happy  home, 
A  father's  blessing  and  a  mother's  voice, 

A  sister's  twining  arms,  a  brother's  love, 
Whose  coming  made  thy  heart  rejoice? 


LA    SOEUB   DE   CHARITE. 

Do  not  dear  memories  of  that  happy  band, 
Darken  the  sunshine  of  thy  placid  brow, 

Those  gentle  visitants  of  by-gone  hours, 

With  their  soft  pleadings,  musical  and  low? 


I  know  thou'rt  human,  for  I've  seen  thee  weep, 
When  bending  o'er  the  sufferer's  couch  of  pain, 

Until  thy  pity  waked  some  gentle  chord, 
Soft  tuned  with  confidence  and  trust  again. 


I  know  thou'rt  loving,  for  I've  seen  thee  fold 
The  helpless  orphan  in  thy  shielding  arm, 

Hush  her  low  sobbings  into  peaceful  rest, 

And  shield  her  innocence  from  guilt  or  harm. 


But  some  there  are  who  knew  thee  when 
Genius  and  fortune  bent  the  knee, 

And  worshipped  at  thy  beauty's  shrine, 
With  love,  almost  idolatry. 


LA  SOEUR  DE    CHARITE. 

In  scenes  of  pleasure,  pomp  and  pride, 
Thy  gentle  spirit  could  not  rest, 

For  thoughts  of  Jesus  crucified, 
"Were  ever  burning  in  thy  breast. 


And  when  the  tones  of  inirth  flashed  high, 
And  music  thrilled  its  sweetest  lay, 

A  whisper  low  had  pierced  thy  heart, 
Which  called  thee  hence,  away !  away  I 


Responsive  to  that  holy  call, 

All  lesser  love  is  now  forgot, 
The  world  may  deem  it  strange  and  wild, 

Her  prayers  are  heard,  she  recks  it  not. 


The  costly  gem  is  laid  aside, 

The  curls  are  severed  from  her  brow, 
Madonna-like,  a  simple  veil, 

Half  hides  its  classic  beauty  now. 


LA   SOEUR    DE   CHARITE.  257 

Let's  follow  her  to  scenes  of  woe, 
The  hireling  nurse  has  fled  with  fear, 

But  still  her  place  is  not  bereft, 
A  gentler  form  is  hovering  near. 

Oh !  listen,  listen  to  her  prayer, 

Can  Heaven  withstand  that  sweet  appeal? 
Oh!  no,  for  down  those  faded  cheeks, 

The  thickly  coursing  tear-drops  steal  1 

And  here  we  leave  her  'mid  those  scenes, 
And  dangers  which  might  well  appal, 

With  angels  for  her  guardian  shield, 
The  dauntless  child  of  Vincent  Paul. 


17 


258  IN  MEMORIAM. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


Clasped  within,  our  heart  of  hearts, 

As  the  petals  of  the  rose 
Fold  the  golden  pollen  close, 

Tender  in  its  warm  repose. 

So  our  Grace,*  our  household  treasure, 
Fonder  loved  from  day  to  day, 

Till  our  Father  saw  the  measure, 
Stole  from  Him  our  hearts  away. 

Then  when  day  was  closing  o'er  us, 

In  the  shadowy  evenfall, 
When  the  heart  with  love  is  tender, 

When  she  dearest  seemed  to  all — • 


*"0ur  Grace"  died  April  9,  1861. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  259 

Game  a  youth  with  noiseless  footsteps; 

Ambient  shone  his  floating  hair, 
And  upon  her  pale,  pale  forehead 

Laid  the  crown  which  seraphs  wear. 

"Earth's  no  longer  ours  forever!" 

Sang  he  this  exulting  strain, 
And  our  darling's  tiny  numbers 

Mingled  with  the  sweet  refrain. 

How  each  heart  is  bowed  in  anguish, 
But  amid  the  sorrow  dim  , 

Feel  they  that  our  Lord  hath  spoken, 
And  they  yield  her  back  to  Him. 


260  NURSERY  SONG. 


NURSERY  SONG. 


Sleep,  gently  sleep,  my  baby  boy, 
For  happy  dreams  are  thine; 

I  know  it  by  the  token  old. 
Then  sleep,  sweet  baby  mine. 

Thy  head  is  pillowed  on  my  breast, 
In  passive  slumbering  it  lies: 

The  shadow  of  an  angel's  wing 
Enfolds  thy  dreamy  eyes. 

'Tis  sweet  to  press  thee  closely  thus, 
And  note  the  beating  time 

With  which  thy  little  throbbing  heart 
Responds  each  pulse  of  mine. 


NURSERY   SONG.  „.  261 

Then  gently  sleep,  my  baby  boy, 

In  happy  visions  blest. 
While  softly  rests  thy  golden  head 

Upon  a  mother's  breast. 


262  «•  TO  S.   M.   R. 


TO  S.  M.  R. 


My  sister  friend,  'tis  joy  to  think 

That  in  thy  far  off  city  home 
These  simple  lines  may  -\vake  a  thought, 

A  memory  of  your  absent  one. 

And  when  you  read,  perchance  will  say — 
Ah  me!   I  wish  that,  as  in  days  of  yore, 

I  could  by  glancing  o'er  the  street, 
Just  see  her  standing  at  the  door. 

How  often,  just  as  day-light  closed, 
We  met  for  converse  grave  and  gay, 

My  children  playing  at  your  feet, 
We  passed  a  happy  hour  away. 


TO  s.  xi.  n.  263 

I  always  met  a  welcome  kind, 

I  always  felt  your  clasped  hand, 
Your  love  and  time  hath  proved  it  well, 

Was  ever  free  at  my  command. 


We  reveled  with  the  poets  old, 

Roamed  in  their  dreamland  far  away, 

Then  laughed  and  said,  the  brow  may  sero 
And  yet  the  heart  be  young  alway. 


Another  one,  I  mind  me  well, 
With  soul  from  all  but  us  apart, 

Is  fanning  now  through  time  and  space, 
The  smouldering  embers  of  my  heart. 


Our  past  hath  had  its  sombre  clouds, 
But  oftentimes  the  glorious  blue, 

With  silver  lining,  would  shine  out, 
And  burst  the  murky  darkness  through. 


264  TO  S.  M.   E. 

Then  in  this  view  let's  be  content, 
Nor  willingly  admit  the  ill, 

That  better  in  the  plan  of  life 
We  may  our  Maker's  hest  fulfil. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  265 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


ROBERT  BURNS  was  born  on  the  29th  of 
September,  1759,  in  a  cottage  (or  what  was 
more  frequently  called  a  "clay  bigging") 
about  two  miles  from  the  city  of  Ayr,  in 
Scotland.  He  was  a  peasant  and  the  son 
of  a  peasant.  As  early  as  his  sixth  year 
he  betrayed  a  fondness  for  books  ;  although 
his  supply  was  scanty,  he  seemed  ever  en 
gaged  in  his  favorite  occupation  of  reading, 
and  it  is  probable  he  read  and  digested 
again  and  again  until  he  made  the  limited 
•matter  his  own.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  he 
was  sent  to  a  rather  advanced  school,  where 


266  ROBERT   BURNS. 

he  acquired  some  French  and  a  little  Latin, 
but  the  pecuniary  difficulties 'of  his  father, 
who  in  attempting  to  better  his  condition 
had  involved  himself  in  speculations  ruin 
ous  to  his  family,  obliged  our  poet  to 
leave  school  at  an  early  age  and  employ 
himself  in  the  occupation  of  husbandry.  He 
seems  to  have  felt  acutely  the  troubles  of 
the  family,  and  the  depression  of  spirits 
which  affected  him  at  this  time  appears  to 
have  impressed  his  future  career,  for  he 
was  ever  after  subject  to  moods  of  de 
pression.  He  had  the  misfortune  to  lose 
his  good  father  at  an  early  age,  and  the 
future  maintenance  of  the  family  became 
almost  exclusively  his  sole  charge.  His 
beautiful  tribute  of  affection  for  that  revered 
parent,  for  whom  he  always  entertained' 
the  most  honorable  respect  and  filial  piety, 


ROBERT   BURNS.  267 

conve}~s  the  grateful  testimony  of  a  devoted 
child : 

O  ye  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains, 

Draw  near  with  pious  reverence  and  attend. 
Here  lie  the  loving  husband's  dear  remains, 

The  tender  father  and  the  generous  friend, 
The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  hurnaii  woe, 

The  dauntless  heart  that  feared  no  human  pride, 
The  friend  of  man,  to  vice  alone  a  foe, 

"For  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side." 

As  he  expresses  it :  "I  first  committed 
the  sin  of  rhyming  at  the  age  of  fifteen." 
A  young  female  who  assisted  him  in  the 
labors  of  the  field  having  inspired  a  boyish 
affection,  he  composed  a  song  descriptive 
of  her  charms.  Even  in  this,  his  first  at 
tempt,  the  poet  seems  older  than  the  boy, 
for  he  w.as  then  but  an  ungainly,  awkward 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

boy,  entirely  unacquainted  with  men  and 
the  manners  of  the  world,  but  yet  so  bent 
on  the  prosecution  of  his  fancy,  combined 
with  a  desire  for  improvement,  that  from 
his  seventeenth  to  his  twenty-first  year 
he  made  considerable  literary  attainment. 
Burns  was  distinguished  by  a  strong  and 
vigorous  mind,  a  spirit  untamable,  a  re 
sentment  quick,  and  a  perception  of  right 
which,  if  ever  invaded,  roused  him  to  the 
most  scathing  and  violent  vituperation. 
He  possessed  a  perfect  scorn  for  deceit  or 
dissimulation,  and  his  muse  was  ever  the 
friend  of  the  oppressed.  How  beautifully 
he  asks  the  charitable  sympathy  of  tho 
world  on  the  unfortunate: 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 
Still  gentler  sister  woman; 


ROBEET  BURNS.  269 

Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennin  wra^g, 

To  step  aside  is  human; 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it ; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us ; 
He  knows  each  chord — its  various  tone, 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias ; 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. 

No  more  touching  advocacy  could  bo 
found  than  the  above,  joined  as  it  is  with 
a  simplicity  so  refreshing  and  beautiful. 
To  the  preservation  of  this  his  rustic  life 


270  ROBERT  BURNS. 

was  eminently  favorable,  and  as  generosity 
and  benevolence  form  the  sentiment  of 
Burns'  muse,  so  entire  truthfulness  consti 
tutes  the  charm  .which  demands  our  appro 
bation.  A  child  could  not  speak  more 
frankly  of  his  feelings  than  the  following  : 

Just  now  I've  ta'en  the  fit  o'  rhyme, 
My  Barnie  noddle's  working  prime, 
My  fancy  yerkit  up   sublime 

Wi'  hasty  summon ; 
Hae  ye  a  leisure  -moment's  tinio 

To-  hear  what's  comin'  § 

Yet  with  all  his  simplicity,  nay,  even  rus 
ticity,  he  maintained  his  position  with  dig 
nity,  even  among  the  polished  circles  of 
Edinburgh. 

Unfortunately,  it  must  be   acknowledged 
he  sometimes  permitted  his  social  habits  to 


ROBERT   BURNS.  271 

• 

overstep  the  bounds  of  prudence,  and  al 
lowed  himself  to  be  seduced,  by  pressing 
invitations,  into  the  society  of  those  whose 
conviviality,  without  being  gross,  was  too 
free  to  be  considerate.  The  indulgences 
of  his  festive  companions  were  exhilara 
tions  of  pleasure  at  his  success,  and  a  gen 
erous  mind  has  often  found  it  difficult  to 
resist  a  temptation  under  such  circum 
stances.  His  appearance  at  this  time  is 
described  as  remarkably  interesting.  His 
form  was  finely  developed,  and  indicated 
masculine  vigor  and  agility ;  his  ample 
forehead  was  shaded  with  a  profusion  of 
curls  ;  his  eyes  were  large,  dark  and  full; 
his  face  was  well-formed,  and  his  whole 
countenance  extremely  pleasing  ;  his  con 
versation  was  fascinating  ;  his  sallies  of  wit 
and  humor  irresistible.  But  these  qualities 


272  ROBERT   BURNS. 

* 

left  him  often  a  prey  to  a  certain  class  ot 
persons,  who  sought  his  genius  as  a  sanc 
tion  to  their  excessive  indulgences.  Yet 
no  man  ever  felt  his  own  imperfections 
more  than  Burns.  He  knew  and  lamented 
them  ;  while  the  spirit  of  independence 
which  he  maintained  prevented  him  from 
ever  being  the  tool  of  the  politician^  or  the 
toady  of  the  great.  He  had  a  desire  to 
raise  his  family  from  their  condition,  which, 
though  it  was  elevated  by  the  genius  of 
the  father,  often  felt  the  inconveniences  of 
a  limited  income.  To  one  who  befriended 
him  in  this  laudable  desire,  he  has  addressed 
himself  in  terms  of  undying  gratitude. 
The  concluding  verses  of  his  poem,  "  The 
Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glencairn,"  (his 
benefactor),  are  particularly  fine  : 


ROBERT  BURNS.  273 

In  poverty's  low  barren  vale, 

Thick  mists  obscure  involve  me  round, 
Though  oft  I  turned  the  wistful  eye, 

Nae  ray  of  fame  was  to  be  found. 
Thou  foundst  me,  like  the  morning  sun 

That  melts  the  fogs  in  limped  air, 
The  friendless  bard  and  rustic   song, 

Became  alike  thy  fostering  care. 

O  why  has  worth  so  short  a  date, 

While  vilians  ripen  gray  with  time ; 
Must  thou,  the  noble,  generous,  great, 

Fall  in  bold  manhood's  hardy  prime. 
Why  did  I  live  to  see  that  day, 

A  day  to  me  so  full  of  woe ; 
O,  had  I  met  the  mortal  shaft 

Which  laid  my  benefactor  low. 

The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride, 

Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen; 

IK 


274  EGBERT   BURNS. 

The  monarch  rnay  forget  the  crown 
That  on  his  head  an  hour  hath  been ; 

The  mother  may  forget  the  child 
That  smiles  sac  sweetly  on  her  knee; 

But  I'll  remember  thee,  Glencairn, 
And  a'  that  thou  hast  done  for  me. 


Truly  has  Robert  Burns  been  called  "the 
heir  of  fame,  but  the  child  of  sorrow." 
After  the  public  and  universal  recognition 
of  his  genius,  it  might  be  expected  that  an 
attempt  would  at  least  be  made  to  place  him 
in  circumstances  favorable  to  its  further  de 
velopment  ;  but  in  this  he  was  most  wofully 
disappointed.  His  expectations  were  not 
very  extravagant.  He  only  asked  a  situa 
tion  where  his  exertions  might  be  uninter 
rupted  by  the  fatigues  of  labor  and  the 
calls  of  want;  and  he  said  "a  life  of  literary 


ROBERT   BURNS.  275 

leisure,  with  a  decent  competence,  is  the 
summit  of  my  wishes."  ''The  happiest,  in 
deed,  are  they  of  whom  Fame  speaks  not 
with  her  clarion  voice."  The  humble  labors 
of  a  farm,  the  monotonous  serenity  of  an 
agricultural  life,  became  weary  to  the  er 
ratic  fancies  and  the  poetic  temperament 
of  Burns.  Then  his  utter  ignorance  of 
management,  his  Avant  of  tact  and  skill  in 
the  little  requisites  necessary  to  success, 
were  a  constant  source  of  trouble  and  em- 
barassment  to  him.  Under  the  pressure 
of  such  circumstances  he  sought  and  ob 
tained  the  humble  position  of  gauger  or 
exciseman  of  the  district  in  which  he  lived. 
Dr.  Currie,  his  biographer,  describes  his 
farm  as  in  a  great  measure  abandoned  to 
his  servants,  while  he  betook  himself  to  the 
duties  of  his  new  appointment.  He  might 


276  ROBERT   BURNS. 

still,  indeed,  be  seen  in  the  spring,  direct 
ing  his  plow,  a  labor  in  which  he  excelled ; 
or  with  a  white  sheet  containing  his  seed 
corn  slung  across  his  shoulders,  striding 
with  measured  steps  along  his  turned  up 
furrows,  and  scattering  the  grain  in  the 
earth.  But  the  farm  no  longer  occupied 
the  principal  part  of  his  care  or  of  his 
thoughts.  It  was  not  at  Ellisland  that  he 
was  now  in  general  to  be  found.  Mounted 
on  horseback,  this  high-minded  poet  was 
pursuing  the  defaulters  of  the  revenue 
among  the  hills  and  vales  of  Nithsdale,  his 
roving  eye  wandering  over  the  charms  of 
nature,  and  muttering  his  wayward  fancies 
as  he  moved  along.  But  oh,  how  sadly 
does  his  new  career  at  Dumfries  contrast 
with  the  inspired  peasant  and  faithful  lim 
ner  of  an  humble  lot.  His  temptations 


ROBERT   BURNS.  277 

were  too  strong  for  his  weak  purposes,  and 
his  resolutions  were  constantly  overcome 
by  the  "  killing  kindness  of  his  friends." 
In  moments  of  quiet  and  thought  he  how 
ever  produced  some  admirable  compositions, 
and  still  went  on  advancing  his  poetic  fame. 
His  own  description  of  a  poet's  fate  is  no 
inapt  illustration  of  his  own : 


Creatures  though  oft  the  prey  of  care  and  sorrow, 
When  blest  to-day  unmindful  of  to  morrow ; 
A  being  formed  t'  amuse  his  graver  friends, 
Admired  and  praised — and  there  the  homage  ends? 
A  mortal  quite  unfit  for  fortune's  strife, 
Yet  oft  the  sport  of  all  the  ills  of  life  ; 
Prone  to  enjoy  each  pleasure  riches  give, 
Yet  happy  wanting  wherewithal  to  live, 
Longing  to  wipe  each  tear,  to  heal  each  groan, 
Yet  frequent  all  unheeded  in  his   own. 


278  ROBERT  BURNS. 

In  his  poem  of  "The  Twa  Dogs,"  what  a 
line  picture  he  draws  of  the  different  states 
of  society.  As  each  is  a  representative  of 
his  class,  they  must  be  introduced  to  the 
reader : 

The  first  I'll  name — they  ca'd  him  Caesar — 
Was  keepit  for  his  Honor's  pleasure; 
His  haii-,  his  size,  his  mouth,  his  lugs, 
Shew'd  he  was  nane  of  Scotland's  dogs, 
But  whalpct  some  place  far  abroad, 
"Where  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod, 
His  lock  lettered  bran  brass  collar 
Showed  him  a  gentleman  and  scholar. 

The  tither  was  a  plowman's  collie, 

A  rhyming,  ranting,  raving  billie, 

Wha  ior  his  Mends  e'er  comrade  had  him, 

And  in  his  freaks  had  Luath  ca'd  him, 

After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang, 

Was  made  lang  syne — Lord  knows  how  lang— 

Whvles  scoured  awa  in  lanst  excursion 


ROBERT  BURNS  279 

An  worried  ither  in  diversion, 
Until  wi'  daffin  weary  grown 
Upon  a  knowl  they  sat  them  down, 
And  there  began  a  lang  digression 
About  the  lords  of  the  creation. 

CAESAR : — 

I've  often  wondered,  honest  Luath, 
What  sort  of  life  poor  dogs  like  you  have- 
An'  when  tne  gentry's  life  I  saw, 
What  way  poor  bodies  lived  ava. 

LUATH : — 

There  nae  sae  wretched  ane  wud  think, 
Tho'  constantly  on  povetith's  brink, 
There  sae  accustomed  wi'  the  sight, 
The  view  o't  give  them  little  fright. 

As  bleak-faced  Hailornas  returns, 
They  get  the  jovial  ranting  kirns, 


280  ROBERT  BURNS. 

When  rural  life  o'  ev'ry  station 
Unite  in  common  recreation, 
Love  blinks,  wit  slaps,  an  social  mirth 
Forgets  there's  care  upon  the  earth, 
That  merry  clay  the  year  begins, 
They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  winds, 
The  happy  reeks  wi'  mantling  ream, 
And  sheds  a  heart  inspiring  steam  ; 
The  luntin  pipe  and  sneeshin  mill 
Are  handed  round  wi'  right  good  will; 
The  cantic  old  folks  crackin'  crouse, 
The  young  ones  ranting  thro'  the  house— 
My  heart  has  been  so  fain  to  see  them 
That  I  for  joy  hae  barkit  wi'  them. 
But  will  ye  tell  me,  Master  Caesar, 
Sure  great  folks  live  a  life  of  pleasure? 
Nae  cauld  nor  hunger  e'er  can  steer  them, 
The  very  thought  o't  need  na  fear  them. 


L'd  man,  but  were  ye  wyles  where  I  am, 


ROBERT  BURNS.  281 

The  gentles  ye  wad  ne'er  envy  them; 
It's  true  they  need  na  starve  or  sweat, 
Thro'  winter's  cauld  or  summer's  heat, 
They've  nae  sair  work  to  craze  their  banes, 
An  fill  auld  age  wi'  grips  an'  granes, 
But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools, 
For  a'  their  colleges  and  schools, 
That  when  their  real  ills  perplex  them, 
They  make  enow  themselves  to  vex  them, 
An  ay,  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt  them, 
In  like  proportion  less  will  hurt  them ; 
Their  days  insipid  dull  and  tasteless, 
Their  nights  unquiet,  lang  and  restless, 
The  ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters, 
As  great  and  gracious  a'  as  sisters; 
But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  of  ither, 
They're  a  run  deils  an  gods  thegither. 
Whyles  o'er  the  wic  bit  cup  and  platie, 
They  sip  the  scandal  potion  pretty, 
Or  lie  lang  nights  wi  crabbit  leuka, 
Pore  owre  the  deil's  pictured  beuks, 


282  ROBERT   BURNS. 

Stake  on  a  chance  the  farmer's  stack-yard 
An  cheat  like  any  unhanged  blackguard. 
There's  some  exception,  man  and  woman, 
But  this  is  gentry's  life  in  common. 

Burns  was  a  being  of  the  strongest  and 
most  intense  passion.  For  pretention  and 
insincerity,  bigotry  and  assumption,  his  muse 
had  ever  a  scathing  denunciation  : 

God  knows  I'm  not  the  thing  I  should  be, 
Nor  am  I  even  the  thing  I  could  be 
But  twenty  times  I  rather  would  be 

An  athiest  clean, 
Than  under  gospel  colors  hid  be 

Just  for  a  screen. 

Another  extract  from  a  poem,  the  title 
of  which  is  inadmissable  to  ears  polite,  is 
often  quoted: 


ROBERT   BURNS.  283 

O  wad  some  pow'r  the  giftie  gie  us 
.     To  see  oursels  as  others  see  us ! 
It  wad  frae  moiiie  a  blunder  free  us, 

And  foolish  notion. 
What  airs  in  dress  and  gait  wad  Ica'e  U3, 

And  e'en  devotion. 

On  diversity  of  condition,  he  says : 

Some  lucky  find  a  flowing  spot, 

For  which  they  never  toiled  nor  swat; 

They  drink  the  sweet  and  eat  the  fat, 

But  care  or  pain, 
And  happly  eye  the  barren  hut, 

With  high  disdain. 

The  susceptibility  of  Burns  to  female 
attraction,  made  him  a  popular  songster, 
but  to  only  one  is  there  any  true  or  poet 
ical  sentiment  inscribed.  To  all  except 


284  ROBERT   BURNS. 

Highland  Mary  it  was  a  simple  description 
of  the  charms  of  rural  beauty.  In  her 
early  death  and  their  solemn  parting  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ayr,  the  poet  seems  to  have 
expressed  the  deepest  feelings  of  which  his 
nature  was  capable,  in  language  so  chaste 
and  beautiful  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
read  them  without  a  corresponding  sym 
pathy. 

There  is  a  beautiful  little  incident  re 
corded  of  Burns'  first  introduction  to  Walter 
Scott,  which  should  be  perpetuated:  Our 
poet  was  dining  with  some  literary  people, 
and  observing  some  fine  poetry  written  un 
derneath  a  picture  on  the  wall,  he  inquired 
the  author.  No  one  could  answer,  until  at 
length  a  modest,  fair-haired  youth  of  fifteen, 
with  a  high  intellectual  forehead,  and 
thoughtful  expression  of  face,  gave  the  name 


ROBERT  BURNS.  285 

of  Langehorne  as  the  writer.  Burns  turned 
and  smiled  upon  the  lad  with  a  look  which 
he  never  forgot.  That  boy  was  Walter 

Scott. 

It  has  been  regretted  that  he  wrote  so 
much  in  a  language  adapted  to  the  pea 
santry.  It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  his 
muse  was  of  the  clay-built  cottage,  and  not 
of  lordly  halls.  Had  his  descent  or  lineage 
been  higher,  had  he  not  been  the  noble 
brother  of  the  poor  and  lowly,  so  great 
would  not  have  been  their  consolation  and 
their  pride.  If  his  friends  or  favorites  were 
of  the  humbler  walks  of  life  they  did  not 
long  remain  there — he  elevated  them,  says 
a  biographer  to  "  Lauras  and  Saccharissas," 
and  not  only  them,  but  their  accessories 
shone  anew,  gilded  by  the  poet's  power.. 


236  ROBERT  BURNS. 

His   description   of  the   "Cotter's  Saturday 
Night "  is  a  beautiful  exmplification :  . 


The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labor  goes, 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks  and  his  hoes, 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary  o'er  the  moor  his  course  does  homeward 
bend. 


At  length  his  lowly  cot  appears  in  view 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree, 

The  expectant  wee  things  toddlin  stacher  thro1, 

To  meet  their  dad  wi'  flechterin'  noise  and  glee, 

His  wee  bit  ingle  blinkin'  bonnily. 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftier  wine's  smile, 

The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  a'  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile, 

An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  an'  his  toil. 


ROBERT   BURNS.  287 

Wi'  joy  unfeigned  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 
And  each  for  other's  welfare  kindly  speirs, 
The  social  hours  swift-winged  unnotic'd  fleet, 
Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears, 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years, 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
The  mother  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  shears, 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new, 
The  father  mixes  a  wi'  admonition  true. 
But  hark!  a  rap  comes  gently  at  the  door, 
Jenny,  what  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  came  o'er  the  moor 
To  do  some  errands  and  convey  her  hame, 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e  and  flush  her  cheek, 
With  heart-struck  anxions  cafss,  inquires  his  name, 
While  Jenny  bafflin's  is  afraid  to  speak, 
Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears  its  nae  wild  worth 
less  rake. 


£88  ROBERT   BURNS. 

There  is  a  pleasing  little  incident  told 
of  Burns  in  connection  with  this  poem. 
It  is  said  that,  with  his  manuscript  in  his 
hand,  he  went  into  a  cottage  where  the 
gude  wife  was  plying  her  wheel.  He  bade 
her  stop  and  hearken  while  he  read  his 
story.  She  listened  very  patiently  to  the 
reading,  and  then  exclaimed  :  "  Hoot,  awee, 
Bobbie,  is  not  that  what  we  all  know?" 
The  proof  of  its  naturalness  was  complete — 
it  was  all  he  desired. 

From  the  frequent  recurrence  of  many 
biographers  to  the  want  of  conjugal  happi 
ness  in  the  household  of  Burns,  we  are  apt 
to  get  the  idea  that  his  home  life  was 
clouded.  This  was  only  so  when  poverty, 
with  its  inconveniences,  intervened.  He 
himself  says :  "  I  have  never  seen  where  I 
could  make  a  better  choice  of  a  wife."  Her 


ROBERT  BURNS.  280 

devotion  as  wife  and  mother  appears  de 
serving  of  every  praise.  It  was  thought 
the  death  of  his  child,  a  lovely  girl  of  tender 
years,  hastened  his  own.  Almost  his  last 
effort  was  the  letter  he  wrote  his  brother. 
He  said:  <rl  am  dangerously  ill,  and  not 
likely  to  get  better.  God  keep  my  wife 
and  children."  His  premonitions  were  cor 
rect.  Fever,  delirium  and  debility  finished 
a  life  which  had  rapidly  decayed  beneath 
the  delicate  peculiarities  that  belong  to  the 
temperament  of  genius,  and  accordingly,  at 
the  early  age  of  thirty-eight,  Scotland 
mourned  her  brilliant  and  gifted  son. 

A  few  lines  expressive  of  his  affection 
for  his  wife  also  shows  his  devotional 
tendency : 


19 


290  ROBERT   BURNS. 

O  all  ye  powers  who  rule  above, 
O  Thou  whose  very  self  art  love, 

Thou  know'st  my  words  sincere; 
The  life-blood  streaming  through  my  heart, 
Or  my  more  dear  immortal  part, 

Is  not  more  fondly  dear. 
When  heart-corroding  care  and  grief 

Deprive  my  soul  of  rest, 
Her  doar  idea  brings  relief 
And  solace  to  my  breast. 
Thou  Being  all-seeing, 
O  hear  my  fervent  prayer, 
Still  take  her  and  make  her 
Thy  most  peculiar  care. 

Another  evidence  that-  he  still  in  his 
better  moods  remembered  the  religious 
training  of  his  youth,  and  wearied  with 
the  disappointments  and  false  promises  of 
friends,  his  spirit  longed  for  rest,  is  given 
in  the  annexed  beautiful  poem : 


ROBERT  BURNS.  291 

THE    LAND    O'    THE    LEAL. 
I'm  wearin'  awa',  Jeaa 
Like  sma' — wraiths  in  tha',  Jean, 
I'm  wearin'  awa' 

To  the  Land  o'  the  .Leal. 

There's  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 
There's  nither  could  mair  care,  Jean, 
The  days  are  a'  fair 

I'  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

O  dry  your  gistening  e'c,  Jean, 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean, 
And  angels  beckon  me 

To  the  Land  o'   the  LeaL 

Ye  have  been  gude  an'  true,  Jean, 
Your  task's  near  ended  noo,  Jean, 
And  I'll  welcome  you 

To   the   Land  o'  the  Leal. 

Our   bonny   bairn's  there,  Jean, 

She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  Jean, 

And   we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


292  MOTHERWELL. 


MOTHERWELL. 


If  William  Motherwell  had  never  written 
but  the  poem  of  Jeanie  Morrison,  it  would 
have  gained  for  him  an  immortality.  Ho 
has  been  compared  to  Burns  in  his  exqui 
site  tenderness  and  pathos.  Like  him,  he 
was  at  one  time  a  violent  partizan  and  an 
uncompromising  politician;  but  when  years 
have  passed  away  the  petty  interests  of  a 
local  sphere  are  lost,  with  all  their  elements 
of  bitterness  and  hatred.  The  beautiful 
sentiments  of  Jeanie  Morrison  will  weave 
an  imperishable  chaplet  for  the  brow  of 
him  who  lives  in  this  touching  and  pure 


MOTHERWELL.  293 

record  of  a  faithful  heart.  Of  this  poem  it 
has  been  said  "  that  while  the  charming 
song  appears  like  an  irrepressible  gush  of 
feeling  that  would  find  vent,  yet  its  finish 
was  the  result  not  of  a  curious  felicity,  but 
of  the  nicest  elaboration."  By  touching  and 
retouching  during  many  years,  did  Jeanie 
Morrison  attain  her  perfection.  If  the 
reader  will  but  have  patience  with  the 
peculiar  dialect,  he  will  find  himself  amply 
repaid  in  its  perusal: 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day; 
The  fire  that's  blown  on  Beltan's  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule, 
But  blacker  fa  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  culo. 


294  MOTHERWELL. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 

Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 
And  blend  my  e'en  wi'  tears; 

They  blind  my  e'en  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 
And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 

As  memory  idly  summons  up 
The  blithe  blinks  o'  lang  syne. 

'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  wee! 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part, 
Sweet  time,  sad  time,  twa  bairns  at  schule, 

Twa  bairns  and  but  ae  heart. 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  lui  ilk  ither  lear, 
And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remembered  eyer  mair. 

1  wonder,  Jeanie,  often  yet, 
When  sitting  on  that  bink, 

Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loop  locked  in  loop, 
What  our  wee  heads  could  think; 


MOTHERWELL.  295 

When  baith  ben  down,  ower  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  bulk  on  our  knee ; 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

Oh,  mind  ye  how  we.  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
Whene'er  the  schule  weans  laughin'  said 

We  decked  thegither  hanie 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  (Saturdays 

(The  schule  then  skaill  at  noon), 
When  we  ran  off  to  speel  the  braes, 

The  broorny  braes  o'  June. 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back, 

O'  schule  time  and  o'  thee. 
O  mornin'  life!  O  mornin'  luvc! 

O  lichsome  days  and  lang, 
When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 

Like  simmer  blossoms,  sprang ! 


296  MOTHERWELL. 

O  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  water  croon? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  owre  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wud 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet. 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wud, 

The  burn  sung  to  the  trees, 
And  we  with  Nature's  heart  in  time, 

Concerted  harmonies; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn, 

For  hours  thegithcr  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  vera  gladness  grat ! 

Aye,  aye,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek, 

Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 
Had  ony  power  to  speak ! 


MOTHERWELL.  297 

That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 
When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 

When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 
Unsyllabled — unsung ; 

I  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 
Oh !  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine; 
Oh  !  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  lang  syne  ?  •»> 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart, 

Still  travels  on  its  way; 
And  channels  deeper  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 


298  MOTHERWELL. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sundered  young, 
I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  of  your  tongue ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  dee, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

O'  bygane  days  and  me! 

Another  Scotch  poem  of  striking  beauty 
of  description  is  "  Cumnor  Hall,"  doubly  in 
teresting  from  the  impression  which  it 
made  on  Walter  Scott.  He  says  "  the  first 
stanza  especially  had  a  peculiar  charm  to 
my  fancy,  and  I  found  myself  repeating  it 
again  and  again."  To  it  the  world  is  pro 
bably  indebted  for  Kenilworth.  Although 
too  long  to  be  inserted  in  full,  it  is  too 
fine  a  specimen  of  its  author's  style  to  be 
lightly  regarded.  Walter  Scott  found  it  in 


MOTHEinVELL.  299 

"Evan's  Ancient  Ballads,"   and    ascribed   it 
to  Mickle  : 

The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall, 
The  moon  (sweet  regent  of  the  sky) 

Silvered  the  walls  of  Cumnor  Hall, 
And  many  an  oak  that  grew  thereby. 

Now  nought  was  heard  beneath  the  skies 
(The  sounds  of  busy  life  wers  still), 

Save  an  vmlucky  lady's  sighs, 
That  issued  from  that  lonely  pile. 

"  Leicester,"  she  cried,  "  is  this  thy  love 
That  thou  so  oft  has  sworn  to  me, 

To  leave  me  in  this  lonely  grove, 
Immured  in  shameful  privacy  ? 

No  more  thou  com'st  with  lover's  speed, 

Thy  once  beloved  bride  to  see ; 
But  be  she  alive,  or  be  she  dead, 

1  fear,  stern  Earl,  's  the  same  to  thee. 


300  MOTHERWELL, 

Not  so  the  usage  I  received 

"When  happy  in  my  father's  hall; 

No  faithless  husband  then  me  grieved, 
No  chilling  fears  did  me  appal. 

I  rose  up  with  the  cheerful  morn, 
No  lark  so  blithe,  no  flower  so  gay  ; 

And,  like  the  bird  that  haunts  the  thorn, 
So  merrily  sung  the  live-long  day. 

If  that  my  beauty  is  but  small, 
Among  court  ladies  all  despised, 

Why  did'st  thou  rend  it  from  that  hall, 
Where,  scornful  Earl, 'it  well  was  prized. 

And  when  you  first  to  me  made  suit, 
How  fair  I  was,  you  oft  would  say! 

And,  proud  of  conquest,  plucked  the  fruit, 
Then  left  the  blossom  to  decay. 


MOTHERWELL.  301 

Thus  lone  and  sad  that  lady  grieved 
In  Cuinnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear ; 

And  many  a  heartfelt  sigh  she  heaved, 
And  let  fall  many  a  bitter  tear. 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  day  appeared, 
In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear, 

Full  many  a  piercing  scream  was  heard, 
And  many  a  cry  of  mortal  fear. 


Full  many  a  traveller  has  sighed, 
And  pensive  wept  the  Countess'  fall, 

As  wandering  onwards  they've  espied 
The  haunted  towers  of  Cumnor  HalL 


AVE    MAEIA. 


SUGGESTED  BY  PAYNE'S  PICTURE  OF  "  THE 
AVE    MAEIA." 


Ave  Maria,  from  yon  convent  gray 

The  evening  bell  is  calling  us  to  prayer, 
Its  mellowed  chimes  in  distance  fade  away, 

Parting  the  stillness  of  the  summer  air. 
Ave  Maria  at  this  holy  hour, 

When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart  are  stirred, 
Tis  sweet  to  feel  the  plentitude  of  power, 

Which  God  on  thee  conferred. 

Oh  holy  mother,  by  thy  blessed  aid, 

We  hope  on  earth  to  do  our  Saviour's  will, 
Oh  light  the  shadows  on  our  path-way  laid, 

And  holy  confidence  with  peace  instil ; 
Then  shall  that  watchful  care,  that  brooding  love, 

Prevail  to  save  us  when  the  tempter's  nigh, 
Blessed  in  thy  guidance  ne'er  again  we'll  rove, 

But  mount  successive  to  thy  throne  on  high. 


AYE   MARIA.  803 

That  bell  hath  warned  us  like  some  gentle  tone, 

A  voice  of  pleading  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
Resistless  monitor,  can  there  be  one 

Who  to  thy  summons  answers  not  ? 
Yon  gentle  maid,  Italia's  dark-eyed  child, 

Has  laid  aside  the  swift  propelling  oar, 
Her  boat  lies  moveless  on  the  sunny  wave, 

To  heaven  and  thee  her  orisons  now  soar. 

Oh  favored  land,  no  Protean  faith  is  thine, 

No  symbol  veering  with  the  summer  air, 
The  holy  type,  the  true  suggestive  sign 

That  tells  of  Calvary  alone  is  there. 
And  now,  though  parted  from  thy  deep  blue  main, 

Thy  sun-lit  hills,  thy  far-off  sounding  sea, 
Visions  are  flitting  through  my  busy  brain, 

Which  stir  the  magic  chords  of  memory. 

The  spells  of  home  are  deep  within  my  heart, 
Its  haunting  memories,  and  its  whispering  tones 

Of  my  lone  life,  they  are  the  only  part 
O'er  which  a  sunbeam  glimmers  on. 


304  AVE    MARIA. 

Ave  Maria,  bless  that  hallowed  spot, 
My  vine-wreathed  home,  her  smiling  olive  plains 

Oh  look  with  pity  on  my  lonely  lot, 
And  bring  the  exile  to  his  home  again. 


i'O    AN   ABSENT    BROTHER.  305 


TO    AN    ABSENT    BROTHER. 


My  brother,  thou'rt  a  wanderer  now, 
The  deep  blue  sea  our  path  divides, 

But  still  our  love  shall  follow  thee, 
Whatever  weal  or  woe  betide. 

The  memories  of  our  early  days, 

Our  mother's  look,  her  tones  of  love, 

Those  gentle  teachings  ever  blent, 
With  holy  themes  of  earth  above. 

These  yearning  thoughts  oft  bring  thee  back, 

For  wert  thou  not  a  sharer  too, 
In  many  a  low-breathed  pray'r  that  fell 

Upon  our  paths  like  glistening  dew. 

20 


806  TO    AN    ABSENT    BROTHER. 

That  mother's  form  hath  passed  away, 
But  not  the  memories  which  endear, 

Or  else  when  but  her  name  is  spoke, 
Why  thickly  course  the  blinding  tears. 

Then  think  be  thine  a  sunny  path, 
Or  one  of  dangers  lone  and  wild, 

That  from  the  heaven  her  love  hath  won, 
Our  mother  bends  to  bless  her  child. 


MERRY    CHRISTMAS.  307 


MERRY    CHRISTMAS. 


"  Merry  Christmas  !  Merry  Christmas  1" 
How  sweetly  sounds  the  old  time-honored 
salutation,  bringing  us  back  to  days  of  yore, 
when  the  fondest  dream  of  our  juvenility 
was  to  anticipate  the  good  old  Santa  Claus. 
How  often  we  wondered  at  his  magical 
ubiquity,  yet  never  for  one  moment  doubt 
ing  the  tales  of  our  good  old  nurse,  of  the 
ponies  prancing  down  the  chimney,  of  the 
stockings  being  filled  in  a  trice,  of  the 
justly  proportioned  rewards  to  each  and 
all.  Happy,  happy  days  of  innocent  child 
hood — after  years,  with  their  more  refined 
pleasures,  can  never  compensate  for  the 
sweet  delusions  of  youth. 


308  MERRY    CHRISTMAS.: 

Beautifully  has  one  of  our  own  poets  de 
scribed  this  festival  in  the  days  of  "  Merry 
England,"  in  those  days  "  when  nature  gave 
her  ample  store."  In  "  this  wise  sang  he:" 


"Within  the  halls  are  song  and  laughter, 
The  cheeks  of  Christmas  grow  red  and  jolly, 

And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 
With  the  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly. 

Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide 

Wallows  the  yule-log's  roaring  tide." 


I  question  much  if  the  iconoclastic  march 
of  progress  can  make  up  for  what  we  have 
lost  in  the  genial  heartiness  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon's  mode  of  celebration.  May  we 
never  grow  too  wise  for  Merry  Christmas  ; 
and  though  often,  very  often  in  the  vicisr. 
situdes  of  life,  it  brings  to  us  Avith  tenfold 
bitterness  the  memory  of  the  loved  and 


MERRY     CHRISTMAS.  309 

lost,  for  at  such  times  the  heart  ever  goes 
back  to  renew  alike  its  grief  and  love,  on 
the  altar  of  affection.  Still  must  we  say  : 

"  Hail  to  thec !  season  of  joy  and  festivity, 
Social  pleasures  and  innocent  mirth, 

Which  smooth  the  path  of  age's  declivity, 
And  render  to  infancy  Eden  on  earth." 


Ring,  ring  the  bells  a  merry  peal, 

Let  loud  hosannas  fill  the  air, 
This  day  is  born  our  Saviour  king, 

Then  banish  every  grief  and  care. 

This  day  from  Heaven's  bright  throne  He  came, 
To  dwell  on  earth  a  simple  babe, 

His  mother's  arms  are  round  Him  thrown, 
And  on  her  breast  His  head  is  laid. 


810  MERRY    CHRISTMAS, 

His  rosy  lips  are  joining  hers 
In  many  a  holy,  fervent  kiss, 

The  tears  of  love  are  on  His  cheek, 
Her  heart  is  filled  with  rapturous  bliss. 

Then  trim  the  halls  with  ivy  green, 

And  let  the  yule  log  away. 
Be  blithe  and  happy  every  one, 

To  welQome  iu  the  Christinas  day. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  311 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


Oliver  Goldsmith,  although  he  ranks  as 
an  English  poet,  was  born  at  a  place  called 
Pallas,  in  the  county  of  Longford,  Ireland. 
His  father  was  an  humble  curate,  and 
"passing  rich,  with  forty  pounds  a  year." 
Although  in  humble  circumstances,  the  fami 
ly  had  their  share  of  ancestral  pride,  and 
boasted  not  a  little  of  an  honorable  Spanish 
descent.  The  name  of  Goldsmith  was 
adopted  in  the  sixteenth  century,  and  was 
derived  from  the  mother's  side.  It  is  said 
much  of  the  romantic  and  wandering  char 
acter  which  distinguished  Goldsmith's  after 
years  was  imbibed  from  the  early  teaching 


312  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

of  his  school-master,  who  had  been  an  offi 
cer  in  the  wars  of  Queen  Anne,  and  who. 
finding  in  his  young  charge  a  ready  listener, 
poured  into  his  willing  ears  the  wild  and 
thrilling  adventures  of  which  he  was  often 
the  hero.  Oliver's  talents  having  attracted 
the  notice  of  some  relatives  of  the 
family,  who,  knowing  the  narrow  circum 
stances  of  his  father  offered  to  send  him 
to  school,  now  commenced  the  troubles  of 
his  life.  Being  naturally  sprightly  and  gay, 
he  upon  one  occasion  imprudently  invited 
some  persons  of  both  sexes  to  his  rooms  for 
a  little  entertainment.  His  tutor,  who  was 
a  man  of  choleric  temperament,  chastised 
young  Goldsmith  in  the  presence  of  his 
friends.  This  disgrace  drove  him  for  a  timo 
from  the  university,  but,  matters  being  ami 
cably  arranged,  he  returned  afterwards,  and 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  813 

finished  his  course  ;  but  it  was  remarkable 
that  he  did  not  fulfill  the  expectations  of  his 
friends,  nor  develop  the  promise  of  his  boy 
hood.  From  his  first  situation  as  tutor  he 
saved  about  £30,  with  which  he  bought  a 
horse  and  commenced  his  rambles  through 
the  country.  After  some  weeks  he  returned 
home  with  a  miserable  nag,  which  he  called 
Fiddleback.  His  story  was,  he  had  sold  his 
first  horse  to  pay  his  passage  for  America, 
but  while  he  was  viewing  the  curiosities 
of  the  town  the  ship  sailed,  and  he  had  just 
sufficient  left  to  purchase  the  wretched 
animal  he  bestrode.  His  uncle,  who  was 
always  kind  and  lenient  to  his  faults,  sent 
him  to  the  temple.  On  his  way  to  London 
he  was  fleeced  by  some  gamesters  and  re 
turned  shortly,  in  disgrace,  to  his  mother. 
Again  his  friends  assist  him.  Next  we  find 


314  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

him  in  Edinburgh  studying  medicine.  After 
attending  several  courses  he  started  for 
Leyden,  where,  with  his  usual  improvidence, 
we  discover  him  spending  the  last  farthing 
in  purchasing  some  costly  roots  for  a  friend. 
He  set  out  now  on  the  tour  of  Europe, 
without  money;  but  with  his  flute  he  won 
the  hearts  of  the  peasantry,  for  their  hos 
pitality  followed,  as  he  says  in  The  Traveler, 
which  is  a  description  of  his  journey  : 

"How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir 
With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murmuring  Loire, 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And  freshened  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew ; 
And  haply  though  my  harsh  touch,  faltering  still, 
But  mocked  all  tune  and  marred  the  dancer's  skill, 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power 
And  clance  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages;    dames  of  ancient  days 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  315 

Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skilled  in  gestic  lore. 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burden  of  three  score." 

The  employments  of  Goldsmith  were  as 
various  as  his  writings.  He  was  usher  in 
an  academy,  a  journeyman  chemist,  a  con 
tributor  to  Dr.  Griffith's  Monthly  Review, 
and  a  conductor  of  the  Lady's  Magazine. 
As  a  writer,  he  was  historian,  essayist,  phil 
osopher  and  poet.  His  fortunes  were  as 
various  as  his  occupations.  The  sad  descrip 
tion  which  he  gives  of  An  Author's  Bed 
chamber  was  no  doubt  drawn  from  his  own 
life  experience  : 

"  The  inuse  found  Scraggon  stretched  beneath  a  rug; 
A  window  patched  \vith  paper  lent  a  ray 
That  dimly  showed  the  state  in  which  he  lay ; 
The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread ; 


316  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread; 
The  royal  game  of  Goose  was  there  in  view, 
And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew ; 
The  seasons  framed  with  listing  found  a  place, 
And  brave  Prince  William  showed  his  lamp  black 

face; 

The  morn  was  cold ;  he  views  with  keen  desire 
The  rusty  gate  unconscious  of  a  fire ; 
With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  scored 
And  five  cracked  teacups  dressed  the  chimney  board  ; 
A  night-cap  decked  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 
A  cap  by  night — a  stocking  all  the  day!" 

When  hard  at  work  earning  the  scanty 
pittance  which  furnished  this  wretched  life, 
he  spent  every  spare  penny  on  the  poor 
children  who  were  his  neighbors,  and  as 
one  of  his  biographers  tells  us,  "  taught 
them  dancing  by  way  of  cheering  their 
poverty."  He  was  known  far  and  near  by 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH  317 

the  poor,  who  regarded  him  as  their  own, 
and  many  an  interesting  and  noble  trait  of 
his  generous  character  is  recorded  in  the 
fond  appellation  which  they  familliarly  be 
stowed  upon  him  of  "our  doctor."  In  his 
Deserted  Village,  which  is  considered  his 
best  work,  how  feelingly  he  portrays  the 
sad  condition  of  the  poor : 

"She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed  and  weep  till  morn; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain." 

There  is  a  quiet  beauty,  an  intellectual 
composure  blending  with  the  chaste  simpli 
city  of  Goldsmith,  and  wo  feel  often,  after 
reading  his  descriptions  and  observations, 


318  OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 

no  one  else  could  have  written  so  well. 
Kead  his  indignant  exclamation  against 
lordly  luxury  and  monotonous  pleasure, 
which,  as  Campbell  observes,  "  aped  the 
grandeur  of  the  feudal  ages,  without  its 
hospitality,"  and  indignantly  spurned  the 
cottage  from  the  green.  Hear  his  descrip 
tion  of  the  migration  to  a  distant  shore  : 

"And  sorrows  deep  that  gloomed  tlie  parting  day 
"Which  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers  and  fondly  looked  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  scenes  like  these  beyond  the  western  mam; 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new  found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe; 
But  for  himself  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  319 

lie  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 

His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 

The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 

And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's   arms. 

With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 

And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose, 

And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear 

And  clasped  them  close  in  sorrow  doubly  dear; 

Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 

In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief." 

HOAV  little  does  the  poet  draw  from  fancy 
that  can  pen  such  a  picture.  How  closely 
has  he  confined  himself  to  realities.  There 
is  a  true  pathos,  a  tender  lament,  in  the 
sympathy  which  he  expresses  that  our  own 
heart,  echoes,  and  the  poet  commands  us  at 
his  will.  The  Traveller  was  Goldsmith's 
first  successful  attempt  in  the  world  of 


320  OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 

letters.  It  passed  rapidly  through  several 
editions.  Dr.  Johnson  has  declared  it  too 
discursive  ;  but  it  was  a  simple  sketch  of 
his  itinerant  life,  and  his  descriptions  vary 
with  the  countries  which  he  describes.  The 
superior  results  of  his  mode  of  observing 
men  and  manners  is  evidenced  by  the  suc 
cess  of  his  work  : 

"  From  that  land  where  Prance  displays  her  bright 

domain 

To  men   of  other  minds   my  fancy  flies, 
Embosomed  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where   the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 
And  sedulous  to   stop   the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall    rampire's   artificial  pride. 
Onward  niethinks   and  diligently   slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow ; 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar, 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  321 

Scoops  out  an  empire  and  usurps  the  shore : 
While  the  pent  ocean  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile ; 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossomed  vale, 
The  willow-tufted  bank,   the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign." 

In  a  letter  of  dedication  to  his  brother 

> 

Goldsmith    says :    "  I    have    endeavored   to 

« 

show  that  there  may  be  equal  happiness  in 
States  that  are  differently  governed  from 
our  own  :  that  every  State  has  a  particular 
principle  of  happiness,  and  that  this  prin 
ciple  in  each  may  be  carried  to  a  mischievous 
excess,  there  are  few  can  judge  better  than 
yourself."  The  Traveller  is  dedicated  to 
this,  his  favorite  brother,  of  whom  he  says  : 

"Where'er  1  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart  untraveli'd  fondly  turns  to  thee  ; 
Still  to  my  brother  turns  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain.1' 

21 


322  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

The  "  Amor  Patriae "  was  never  more  fitly 
described  than  in  the  following,  taken  from 
the  same  poem : 

"But  where  to  find  the  happiest  spot  below, 
Who  can  direct  when  all  pretend  to  know? 
The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly     proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own ; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease; 
The  naked  negro  panting  at  the  line 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 
Basks  in  the  glare  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave — 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast  where'er  we  roam, 
His  first  best  country  ever  is  at  home." 

The  steady  popularity  of  Goldsmith  in 
that  era  of  literature  when  pretension  was 
easily  unmasked,  and  when  the  standard  was 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  323 

supported  by  men  of  genius  and  scholar 
ship,  is  indeed  a  consideration  not  to  be 
overlooked.  When  the  mind  is  bewildered, 
when  the  brain  aches  by  the  sensation  im 
probabilities,  the  startling  incidents,  the 
terrific  disclosures  of  our  every  day  fictions, 
our  highly  wrought  pictures  of  fashionable 
and  false  life,  turn  to  the  "  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field."  It  appears,  indeed,  like  the  record 
(as  it  truly  is)  of  another  age.  Its  lessons 
of  rural  life  and  humble  virtue,  its  simple 
credulity  and  unsophisticated  innocence  are 
charming  in  their  very  freshness.  There 
is  not  even  an  attempt  at  mystery,  except 
in  one  character.  Goldsmith  did  not  cater 
to  that  taste  which  is  only  satisfied  by 
something  out  of  the  entire  order  of  natural 
events,  and  which  make  vice  not  the  mon 
ster  of  hideous  mien,  but  a  poor  suffering 


324  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

martyr  to  circumstances,  while  honest,  plain 
homespun  virtue  is  simply  tolerated,  seldom 
reverenced  and  honored. 

The  sale  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  brought 
our  poet  £60.  It  came  most  opportunely 
— just  at  that  time  when  he  was  immured 
within  by  bailiffs,  and  threatened  to  be 
driven  out  by  his  long-suffering  landlady. 
Shortly  after  this  publication  he  became 
recognized  in  good  society,  and  was  the  re 
cipient  of  much  literary  distinction.  He 
also  became  a  member  of  some  clubs  only 
frequented  by  men  of  genius,  and  many  a 
pungent  witticism  and  brilliant  sally  is  re 
corded  of  those  convivial  reunions.  Many! 
forgotten  (save  at  the  passing  moment)  havo 
passed  silently  away  into  the  oblivion  ol 
time, — others  found  their  way  out,  and  live 
as  pictures  of  the  past.  It  was  proposed 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  325 

one  evening,  when  Goldsmith  happened  to 
be  absent,  to  write  his  epitaph.  It  was  ac 
cordingly  done,  aud  he  was  called  upon  for 
an  answer.  This  is  the  history  of  his  some 
what  celebrated  poem  "Retaliation." 

At  the  next  meeting  he  sent  in  the  fol 
lowing  : 

Of  old  when   Scarron   his   companions   invited, 
Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was  united. 
If  our  landlord  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with  fish. 
Let  each  guest  bring  himself,  and  he  brings  the  best 

dish : 

Our  Dean  shall  be  veu'son  just  fresh  from  the  plains, 
Our  Burke  shall  be  tongue  with  a  garnish  of  brains, 
Our  Will  shall  be  wild  fowl  of  excellent  flavor, 
And  Dick  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  the  savor, 

Our  Cumberland's  sweet  bread  its  place  shall  obtain 

i 
And  Douglas  is  pudding  substantial  and  plain ; 

Our  Garrick's  a  salad,  for  in  him,  we  see, 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar  and  saltness  agree ; 


326  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

To  make  out  the  dinner  full  certain  I  am 
That  Ridge  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  is  lamb, 
That  Hickey's  a  capon,  and  by  the  same  rule 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  goosberry  fool. 
At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast, 
Who'd  not  be  a  glutton  and  stick  to  the  last  ? 
Here,  waiter,  more  wine,  let  me  sit  while  I'm  able, 
Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table ; 
Then  with  chaos  and  blunder  encircling  my  head 
Let  me  ponder  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the  dead. 
Here  lies  the  good  Dean  reunited  to  earth, 
Who  mixed  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom  with 

mirth. 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund  whose  genius  was  such 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it  or  blame  it  too  much; 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his  mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind. 
Here  lies  David  Garrick — describe  him  who  can; 
An  abridgement  of  all  that  was  pleasant  ia  man  ; 
As  an  actor,  confessed  without  rival  to  shine; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  327 

Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  pleasant,  blunt  creature, 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good  nature ; 
He  cherished  his  friend,  and  he  relished  a  bumper, 
Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  was  a  thumper! 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser ; 
I  answer  no,  no;  for  he  always  was  wiser; 
Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat? 
His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that; 
Perhaps  he  has  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 
And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ?    Ah,  no. 
Then  what  was  his  failing?  come,  tell  it  and  burn  ye; 
He  was — could  he  help  it  ? — a  "  special  attorney." 
Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
lie  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind ; 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless  and  grand; 
•  His  manners  were  gentle,  complying  and  bland ; 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart; 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
When  they  judgxl  without  skill  he  was  still  hard  of 
hearing, 


328  OLIOEB   GOLDSMITH. 

When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Corregios  and 

stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet*  and  only  took  snuff. 

Strange  with  all  his  originality  and  re 
finement  of  mind,  Goldsmith  should  have 
been  the  subject  of  witticism.  His  country 
dialect  and  person  were  kept  in  view  by 
ignorant  witlings,  while  his  noble  qualities 
were  often  overlooked.  He  was  almost  ever 
a  loser  in  conversation,  and  Johnson  re 
marked  of  him,  "  no  man  was  more  foolish 
when  he  had  not  a  pen  in  his  hand,  or  more 
wise  when  he  had,"  and  he  further  observes 
"whatever  he  composed  he  did  it  better 
than  any  other  man  could,  and  whether  we 
consider  him  as  a  poet,  a  comic  writer,  or  a 
historian,  (so  far  as  regards  his  powers  of 


*Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  so  remarkably  deaf  as  to  be  under  iho 
necessity  of  using  an  ear  trumpet  in  company. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  329 

composition,)  he  was  one  of  the  first  writers 
of  his  time,  and  will  ever  stand  in  the  fore 
most  class."  Strange  indeed  with  such  rare 
endowments  there  should  be  joined  such  un- 
perverted  simplicity,  such  delight  in  the 
delineation  of  humble  life.  He  could  write 
Roman  and  English  histories,  biographies 
and  introductions  to  books,  a  history  of  the 
earth  and  animated  nature,  and — 

— he  could  stoop  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  place ; 
The  white  washed  wall,  the  sanded  floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door ; 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose, 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay, 
While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept   for  show, 
'Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 


330  OLINER   GOLDSMITH. 

The  very  truthfulness  of  Goldsmith's 
character,  which  prevented  him  from  dis 
sembling  or  hiding  his  emotions,  led  to  many 
a  rebuke  from  the  stately  and  pedantic 
Johnson.  At  one  time  when  complaining  of 
the  unjustness  of  some  epithet  which  had 
been  bestowed  upon  him,  Johnson  exclaimed, 
"  poh !  poh !  doctor  ;  let  them  call  you  Holo- 
fernes  if  they  like,  what  matters  it  ?"  and  . 
when  he  experienced  some  chagrin  at  the 
reception  which  his  "  Man  in  Black "  re 
ceived,  he  showed  the  most  unmitigated 
contempt  for  "  poor  Goldy,"  as  he  styled 
him  in  derision,  that  he  should  feel  or  care. 
The  truth  is,  although  Goldsmith  had  known 
and  suffered  much,  he  had  not  lived  so  long- 
in  poverty  as  his  great  contemporary,  "  nor 
suffered  so  long  from  hope  deferred."  John 
son  was  over  fifty  when  he  was  first  known 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  331 

to  the  public  ;  Goldsmith  only  forty-six  when 
he  died. 

As  mannerism  makes  the  identity  of  dis 
tinguished  individuals,  so,  although  often 
times  odd  and  even  offensive,  we  learn  to 
regard  it  as  sacred,  being  a  part  of  them 
selves.  Milton,  Burke,  and  Johnson  most  of 
all  was  remarkable  for  this.  Goldsmith  said 
to  him  one  day,  "If  you  were  to  write  a  fable 
about  little  fishes,  Doctor,  you  would  make 
the  little  fishes  talk  like  whales."  A  lite 
rary  discussion  with  Johnson  was  delightful; 
yet  so  was  a  chat  with  the  watch-maker  in 
Gun  Arbor  Court,  and  the  tailor  who 
patched  his  only  velvet  coat  so  nicely.  He 
sympathized  with  the  wrongs  of  all  classes ; 
perhaps  it  was  not  his  particular  merit ;  his 
heart  was  naturally  feeling,  and  it  was  in 
voluntary.  But  we  must  love  the  man  who 


332  OLIVEE  GOLDSMITH. 

could  leave  a  convivial  party  to  search  for 
some  poor  woman  whose  tones,  as  she  chanted 
a  ditty  in  passing  by,  indicated  distress ; 
and  he  rejoiced  more  in  the  exercise  of 
those  tender  and  noble  sentiments  than  in 
the  highest  triumphs  of  scholarship  and 
renown.  He  never  made  use  of  stratagem 
to  compass  a  favor.  At  one  time  his 
friends  were  anxious  that  he  should  procure 
some  patronage  from  the  Earl  of  Bute.  He 
undertook  to  prepare  an  introduction.  Meet 
ing  the  upper  steward,  he  mistook  him  for 
"  my  lord,"  and  gave  him  the  benefit  of 
what  had  been  prepared  for  ears  polite. 
He  retrieved  his  error  in  his  usual  way,  by 
telling  the  nobleman  that  he  had  no  confi 
dence  in  the  patronage  of  the  great,  but 
would  rather  rely  on  the  booksellers. 
In  judging  of  the  sentiments  of  poets, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  333 

we  usually  allow  them  so  much  of  what  is 
called  "  poetic  license"  that  a  strict  and 
logical  interpretation  is  scarcely  ever  in 
dulged  in.  With  Goldsmith  it  is  quite  dif 
ferent.  He  keeps  so  close  to  realities,  and 
draws  certain  conclusions  respecting  the 
destiny  and  happiness  of  mankind  so  accu 
rately  and  pointedly  that  we  judge  him  by 
a  different  standard,  although  this  may  be 
complimentary  to  him  as  a  philosopher,  by 
the  same  rule  we  may  misjudge  him  as  a 
poet. 

It  has  been  said  his  theory  is  averse 
to  trade  and  wealth  and  arts.  He  delineates 
their  evils,  and  disdains  their  vaunted  bene 
fits,  as  in  the  following  extract: 

O  luxury,  thou  curs'd  by  heaven's  decree, 
How  do  thy  potions  with  insidious  joy 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy; 


334  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

Kingdoms  by  thee  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 

Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own. 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 

A  bloated  mass  of  rank,  unwieldly  woe, 

Till  sapped  their  strength  and  every  part  unsound, 

Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  'round. 

Goldsmith  vindicates  his  own  expressed 
views  in  a  letter  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 
He  says  :  "  For  twenty  or  thirty  years  past, 
it  has  been  the  fashion  to  consider  luxury 
as  one  of  the  greatest  national  advantages ; 
and  all  the  wisdom  of  antiquity  in  that  par 
ticular  as  erroneous.  Still,  however,  I  must 
remain  a  professed  ancient  on  that  head, 
and  continue  to  think  those  luxuries  preju 
dicial  to  states  by  which  so  many  vices  are 
introduced,  and  so  many  kingdoms  have 
been  undone.  Indeed,  so  much  has  been 
poured  out  of  late  on  the  other  side  of  the 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  335 

question,  that,  merely  for  the  sake  of  novelty, 
and  variety,  one  would  sometimes  wish  to 
be  right."  "Truth  is  an  endearing  quality;" 
perhaps  it  was  this  spell  that  brought  so 
many  hearts  to  his  shrine.  Certain  it  is, 
he  was  loved  while  living,  and  mourned 
when  dead. 

When  Goldsmith  died,  Reynolds,  then  in 
the  full  tide  of  success,  threw  his  pencil 
aside  in  sorrow,  and  Burke  turned  from 
the  fast  brightening  vision  of  renown  to 
weep.  No  obituary  more  sincere  or  more 
heartfelt  could  be  desired  than  this. 


336  CHRISTMAS   SOXO 


CHRISTMAS  SONG— 1866. 


An  anthem  of  joy,  an  anthem  of  love, 

'For  another  Christmas  day ; 
Let  the  earth  rejoice,  the  Heavens  be  glad 

While  we  our  offerings  pay. 

We  come  with  lowly,  reverent  hearts, 
To  that  crib  and  manger  old, 

But  not  with  gems  and  settings  rare, 
Of  diamond  and  of  gold. 

Oh  no,  not  these,  for  the  earth  is  His, 
The  stars  and  the  boundless  sea, 

The  moon  that  gems  the  vaulted  dome, 
In  her  silvery  canopy. 


CHRISTMAS   SONG.  337 

An  angel  band  at  His  behest, 

The  couriers  of  His  will, 
Await  the  mandate  which  shall  bid 

The  unceasing  world  bo  still. 

On  earth  so  weak,  in  Heaven  so  strong, 

A  mortal  yet  divine, 
I  ask  not,  for  I  may  not  know 

This  mystery  of  thine. 

Then  an  anthem  of  love,  an  anthem  of  joy, 

For  our  Saviour's  natal  day, 
With  the  angel  choir  exulting  join, 

The  sweet  attesting  lay. 


338  TO  M.    H. 

TO  M.  H 

Dear  friend,  dear  friend,  my  heart  to  day 
Renews  its  youth  from  memory's  spring, 

And  as  its  rolling  "waters  play, 

One  gift  to  you  it  fain  would  bring. 

My  mother's  friend !    That  name  alone 
Must  bind  thee  ever  to  my  heart ; 

My  guide  through  many  a  dreary  waste — 
Such  thou  hast  been,  and  still  thou  art. 

My  wilful  pride,  my  wayward  youth, 
Defied  reproof  from  all  but  thee ; 

Thy  soothing  love,  thy  kindly  blame, 
Hath  made  whatever  good  there  be. 

Then  as  ye  cluster  round  the  board, 
And  as  ye  quaff  the  goodly  cheer, 

Oh  take  my  love,  my  fondest  wish, 
For  blessings  on  the  coming  year. 


THE  AUTUMN  BAUBLE.  839 


THE    AUTUMN  RAMBLE. 


Come  my  darlings  for  a  ramble, 
To  the  woods  so  dun  and  sere, 

Don  your  cloaks  and  tie  your  bonnets, 
For  the  inorn  is  cold  and  clear. 

Glows  each  face  with  expectation, 
For  the  treasures  to  be  found, 

Nuts  and  cones,  with  pretty  acorns, 
Strewed  upon  the  leafy  ground. 

Don  and  Dash  are  on  before  us, 
Bounding  merrily  up  the  hill, 

Looking  back  with  furtive  glances 
Barking  their  impatient  will. 


340  THE   AUTUMN  BA.MDLE. 

i 
Shall  we  to  the  grove  of  cedars, 

Winter  there  is  ever  green, 
Aud  the  sun  with  side-king  glances 
Flings  to  earth  a  paler  sheeu. 

Nay,  reluctant,  you  would  rather 

To  the  beechen  woods  below, 
Where  we  found  the  dark  green  fern  leaves 

Only  a  few  days  ago. 

Now  with  little  hands  close  pressing, 
Tender  palms  love-linked  in  mine, 

Pattering  feet  to  laughing  measure, 
Happy  glides  the  merry  time. 


D2.  JOHNSON.  341 


DR.    JOHNSON. 


DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON  was  born  on  the 
18th  of  September,  1709,  at  Lichfield,  in 
Staffordshire.  From  neither  father  nor  mother 
had  he  any  great  amount  of  intellect  to 
inherit.  Their  extraction  was  obscure.  His 
father  is  represented  as  being  an  unwaver 
ing  devotee  to  the  house  of  Stuart,  and 
strongly  prejudiced  in  favor  of  their  cause. 
He  was  a  bookseller  and  stationer  in  Der 
byshire.  His  mother,  with  a  mind  unim 
proved  by  education,  was  nevertheless  a 
woman  of  good  natural  understandiDg, 
eminently  pious  and  conscientious  according 
to  her  standard  of  religious  faith,  and  her 


342  DR.    JOHNSON 

son  in  after  years  acknowledged,  with 
gratitude  and  almost  veneration,  the  bene 
fits  of  her  early  instruction.  The  effects 
of  the  many  castigations  Johnson  received 
at  school  from  his  severe  but  attentive 
teacher,  influenced  him  in  favor  of  a  free 
use  of  the  rod,  and  in  all  his  conversations 
on  the  subject  he  declared  strenuously  in 
favor  of  the  same.  He  commanded  respect 
from  his  school-fellows  by  his  remarkable 
proficiency  and  aptitude  ;  it  always  ex 
ceeded  his  apparent  diligence,  but,  in  truth, 
when  he  seemed  idle  he  was  often  laboring. 
Dr.  Adams  said  of  him :  "  No  young  man 
ever  entered  the  university  better  qualified." 
In  order  to  defray  his  expenses  there  he  be 
came  companion  to  a  gentleman  of  Shrop 
shire.  Avho  spontaneously  undertook  to  sup 
port  him.  Among  his  companions  he  was 


DR.   JOHNSON.  343 

looked  up  to  as  a  man  of  wit  and  spirit, 
but  he  was  always  subject  to  fits  of  melan 
choly  (which  he  inherited  from  his  father), 
accompanied  by  alternate  irritation  and 
languor.  From  nature  he  had  received  an 
uncouth  figure  and  diseased  constitution,  as 
a  kind  of  detraction,  perhaps,  for  his  great 
mental  abilities,  for  after  all  our  common 
mother  is  not  as  partial  in  her  gifts  as  we 
are  apt  to  consider  her,  and  her  doctrine 
of  compensation  very  often  comes  in  most 
opportunely  as  an  offset  to  repress  our  pre 
sumption  or  save  us  from  despair.  At  Mr. 
Jordan's  (his  teacher's)  request,  he  translated 
Pope's  Messiah  into  Latin  verse  as  a  Christ 
mas  exercise.  Shortly  after  leaving  college 
his  father  died.  The  means  he  left  were 
scarcely  sufficient  to  afford  a  temporary 
support  to  his  mother,  and  in  the  following 


DR.    JOHNSON. 

year  he  accepted  a  situation  as  usher  in  a 
school ;  but  that  was  rendered  irksome  to 
him  from  the  pride  and  pomposity  of  its 
patron,  Sir  Wolstun  Dixie.  He  finally 
threw  up  his  situation  in  disgust,  and  be 
coming  the  guest  of  Mr.  Hector  (an  eminent 
surgeon),  embarked  in  the  uncertainties  of 
authorship.  But  even  in  these,  his  first 
works,  may  be  observed  the  energetic  and 
manly  style  (notwithstanding  the  manner 
isms)  which  he  is  said  to  have  initiated  and 
taught  his  countrymen.  His  labors  at  this 
time  were  principally  translations,  dedica 
tions  and  essays.  Having  suggested  some 
improvements  in  the  management  of  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine,  its  editor  employed 
him  as  a  contributor,  and  Johnson  entered 
into  an  agreement  to  furnish  those  articles 
which  he  himself  had  the  privilege  of  se- 


DR.    JOHNSON.  345 

lecting.  In  the  following  year  he  married 
the  widow  of  Mr.  Porter,  a  mercer  of  Bir 
mingham,  a  lady  who,  although  twenty  years 
his  senior,  is  said  to  have  been  the  object 
of  his  first  passion.  From  this  disparity, 
joined  to  a  peculiar  temper,  their  conjugal 
happiness  was  not  uninterrupted.  But  he  al 
ways  spoke  of  her  respectfully,  and  mourned 
her  loss  with  unfeigned  sorrow.  With  the 
fortune  which  she  brought  him  ho  fitted  up 
an  academy.  Three  pupils  only  rewarded 
his  endeavors.  One  of  these  was  the  cele 
brated  David  Garrick,  who  remained  ever 
the  devoted  friend  of  Johnson.  Their  for 
tunes  were  as  different  as  their  peculiar 
abilities  Garrick,  as  is  well  known,  devoted 
himself  to  the  stage,  and  receiving  its 
highest  honors,  retired  on  a  fortune  splen 
did  beyond  all  precedent  for  an  actor ; 


346  DR.    JOHNSON. 

while  Johnson  struggled  on,  in  poverty  and 
comparative  obscurity,  for  many  a  weary 
year.  At  the  end  of  six  months  the  school 
was  declared  a  failure,  and  given  up.  His 
"  London,"  an  imitation  of  the  third  satire 
of  Juvenal,  won  for  Dr.  Johnson  the  fame 
and  respect  of  his  contemporaries,  and  it 
was  said,  "the  writer  of  so  fine  a  poem 
cannot  long  remain  unknown."  He  com 
pares  and  contrasts  the  pleasures  of  a  rural 
life  with  that  of  a  city. 

There  none  are  swept  by  sudden  fate  away, 
But  all  whom  hunger  spares,  with  age  decay; 
Here  malice,  rapine,  accident,  conspire, 
And  now  a  rabble  rages,  now  a  fire; 
Their  ambush  here  relentless  ruffians  lay, 
And  here  the  fell  attorney  prowls  for  prey; 
Here  falling  houses  thunder  on   your  head, 
And  here  a  female  atheist  talks  you  dead. 


DR.    JOHNSON.  347 

His  prejudice  against  France  and  Spain 
finds  here  a  convenient  outlet,  and  he  de 
plores  the  introduction  of  those  manners 
and  occupations  which  might  effeminate  or 
degrade  the  more  manly  Briton.  Imagining 
the  effects  he  fears,  he  says  : 

Nor  hope  the  British  lineaments  to  trace, 

The  rustic  grandeur  or  the  surly  grace, 

But  lost  in  thoughtless  ease  and  empty  show, 

Behold  the  warrior  dwindled  to  a  beau; 

Sense,  freedom,  piety,  refined  away, 

Of  France  the  mirror  and  of  Spain  the  prey; 

All  that  at  home  no  more  can  beg  or  steal, 

Or  like  a  gibbet  better  than  a  wheel, 

Hissed  from  the  stage  or  hooted  from  the  court, 

Their  air,  their  dress,  their  politics  import; 

Obsequious,  artful,  voluble  and  gay, 

On  Britain's  fond  credulity  they  prey, 


348  DR.  JOHNSON. 

Turn  from  this  to  the  description  of 
character.  It  would  seem  as  if  all  the 
acerbity  of  Johnson  was  excited  against 

The  supple  Gaul  who,  born  a  parasite, 
Still  to  his  interest  true  where'er  he  goes, 
Wit,  bravery,  worth  his  lavish  tongue  bestows; 
In  every  face  a  thousand  graces  shine, 
From  every  tongue  flows  harmony  divine, 
These  arts  in  vain  our  rugged  natives  try, 
Strain  out  with  faltering  diffidence  a  lie, 
And  gain  a  kick  for  awkward  flattery. 
Well  may  they  venture  on  the  mimic's  art, 
Who  play  from  morn  to  night  a  borrowed  part, 
Practis'd  their  masters'  notions  to  embrace, 
Repeat  his  maxims  and  reflect  his  face, 
With  every  wild  absurdity  comply, 
And  view  each  object  with  another's  eye : 
To  shake  with  laughter  ere  the  jest  they  hear, 
To  pour  at  will  the  counterfeited  tear, 
And  as  their  patron  hints  the  cold  or  heat, 
To  shake  in  dog-days,  in  December  sweat, 


DR.   JOHNSON.  349 

How,  when  competitors  like  these  contend, 
Can  surly  virtue  hope  to  find  a  friend  ? 
Slaves  that  with  serious  impudence  beguile, 
And  lie  without  a  blush,  without  a  smile. 


He  who  for  nearly  all  his  life  had  tasted 
poverty  to  its  bitter  dreg,  had  looked  from 
its  sad  and  lonely  contemplations  on  the 
means  and  ends  by  which  men  "  raise  a 
palace  and  a  manor  buy,"  might  well  ex 
claim  : 

This  mournful  truth  is  everywhere  confessed, 
Slow  rises  worth  by  poverty  oppressed. 

Johnson,  Collins,  Fielding  and  Thomson, 
names  the  most  celebrated  during  the  eigh 
teenth  century,  were  all  four  at  different 
times  arrested  for  debt.  The  supreme 
power,  after  the  accession  of  the  house  of 


350  DE.      JOHNSON. 

Hanover,  passed  into  the  hands  of  Sir  Hor 
ace  Walpole,  who,  whatever  his  talents  for 
government  and  debate,  had  but  little  taste 
for  authors,    and    that    fund    which,    under 
Bolingbroke,  had   fostered   men    of   letters, 
was   now   employed   in   bartering    for  par 
liamentary    support.     Macauley    says,  "  the 
coarse  joke  of  his  friend,  Sir  Charles  Kan- 
bury  Williams,  was  more  pleasing  to  Wal 
pole  than  Thomson's  Seasons  or  Richardson's 
Pamela."    Thus  at  the  time  when  Johnson 
commenced  his  literary  career,  a  writer  had 
little   to  hope   from   the  patronage  of   the 
great.     The    season    of   rich    harvest    had 
passed  away,  and  famine  now  desolated  the 
land.    All  that  was  despicable  and  wretched 
might  be   summed  up  in    one    word — poet. 
In   calamities   and  miseries   such   as  these, 
Johnson    embarked    in    his    twenty-eighth 


DR.   JOHNSON.  351 

year,  and  the  information  respecting  him 
from  that  period  until  he  came  before  the 
world  with  a  fame  established,  and  a  pen 
sion  confessed,  is  little  indeed  for  the  giant 
of  English  literature.  He  who  had  so  often 
experienced  the  delusive  promises  of  the 
great  might  well  describe,  in  his  "Vanity 
of  Human  Wishes,"  the 

Unnumbered  suppliants  who  crowd  Preferment's  gate, 
Athirst  for  wealth  and  burning  to  be  great 
Delusive  fortune  hears  the  incessant  call, 
They  mount,  they  shine,  evaporate  and  falL 
On  every  stage  the  foes  of  peace  attend, 
Hate  dogs  their  flight  and  insult  marks  their  end. 
Love  ends  with  hope ;  the  sinking  statesman's  door 
Pours  in  the  morning  worshipper  no  more ; 
For  growing  names  the  weekly  scribbler  lies, 
To  growing  wealth  the  dedicator  flies; 
From  every  room  descends  the  painted  face 
That  hung  the  bright  Palladium  of  the  place, 


352  DR.    JOHNSON. 

And  smoked  in  kitchens  or  in  auctiors  sold; 
To  better  features  yields  the  frame  of  gold, 
For  now  no  more  we  trace  in  every  lino 
Heroic  worth,  benevolence  divine, 
The  form  distorted  justifies  the  fall, 
And  detestation,  rids  the  indignant  wall. 

In  comparison  with  the  great  attributes 
of  Dr.  Johnson,  poetry  seems  quite  subsi- 
dary  ;  yet  his  verification  was  ready  and 
free.  The  following,  to  a  young  lady  on 
her  birth-day,  was  almost  impromptu,  in 
the  presence  of  Mr.  Hector: 

This  tributary  verse  receive  my  fair, 
Warm  with  an  ardent  lover's  fondest  prayer, 
May  this  returning  day  forever  find 
Thy  form  more  lovely,  more  adorned  thy  mind  j 
All  pa'ns,  a.l  cares,  may  favoring  heaven  remove, 
All  but  the  sweet  solicitude  of  love- 
May  powerful  nature  join  with  grateiul  art, 


DR.    JOHNSON.  353 

To  point  each  glance,  and  force  it  to  the  heart; 
Oh  then,  when  conquered  crowds  confess  thy  sway, 
When  e'en  proud  wealth  and  prouder  wit  obey, 
My  fair,  be  mindful  of  the  mighty  trust, 
Alas !  'tis  hard  for  beauty  to  be  just. 
Those  sovereign  charms  with  strictest  care  employ, 
Nor  give  the  generous  pain,  the  worthless  joy; 
"With  his  own  form  acquaint  the  forward  fool, 
Shown  in  tho  mimic  glass  of  ridicule ; 
Teach  mimic  censure  her  own  faults  to  find, 
No  more  let  coquettes  to  themselves  be  blind, 
So  shall  Belinda's  charms  improve  mankind. 

If  politeness  is  benevolence  in  small 
things,  then  indeed  Dr.  Johnson's  benevo 
lence  was  confined  to  great  things.  He 
•wanted  sympathy  with  the  common  ills 
which  generally  afflict  mankind.  Even  a 
great  pecuniary  loss  failed  to  affect  him, 
unless  the  loser  were  reduced  to  beggary. 

Small  things  appeared  to  him  contemptible, 

23 


354  DR.    JOHNSON. 

and  yet  he  was  the  slave  of  little  habits, 
little  tastes,  little  customs.  Boswell  tells  us 
of  his  insatiable  taste  for  tea,  his  extreme 
fondness  for  fish-sauce  and  veal-pie  with 
plums,  his  trick  of  touching  the  posts  as  he 
walked,  his  mysterious  practice  of  treasuring 
up  scraps  of  orange  peel,  his  morning  slunr 
bers,  his  midnight  disputations,  etc.,  etc., 
until  we  are  able  to  say,  with  Macauley,  he 
is  better  known  to  us  than  any  man  in  his 
tory.  And  yet  he  was  not  wanting  in 
affection.  His  beautiful  poem  of  Easselas 
was  written  to  defray  the  expenses  of  his 
mother's  funeral;  and  incredible  as  it  may 
seem,  Walsh  tells  us  the  whole  of  this 
elegant  and  philosophical  fiction  was  pre 
pared  for  press  in  one  week,  and  sent  in 
portions,  as  it  was  written.  He  loved  his 
mother  with  the  most  anxious  affection,  and 
often  from  his  scanty  hoards  contributed  to 


DR.    JOHNSON.  355 

her  relief.  His  ''Yours,  without  a  dinner," 
to  his  bookseller,  Cave,  tells  most  powerfully 
the  state  of  his  impoverished  finances.  In 
a  letter,  to  Lord  Chesterfield,  which  is  con 
sidered  a  model  of  "  dignified  contempt," 
his  allusion  to  the  loss  of  his  wife  and  to 
his  present  situation  is  exquisitely  beautiful. 
11  The  notice  you  have  been  pleased  to  take 
of  my  labors,  had  it  been  early,  had  been 
kind,  but  it  has  been  delayed  until  I  am 
indifferent  and  cannot  enjoy  it;  until  I  am 
solitary  and  cannot  impart  it;  until  I  am 
known  and  do  not  want  it."  Lord  Chester 
field,  whom  Johnson  regarded  at  one  time 
as  a  liberal  patron,  had  neglected  him,  but 
being  anxious  to  have  the  dictionary,  which 
was  just  finished,  dedicated  to  him,  sought 
to  soothe  him  by  ingenious  compliments; 
but  Johnson  was  indignant  that  his  lordship 
would  even  suppose  for  a  moment  he  could 


356  DR.    JOHNSON, 

bo  reconciled  by  his  flattery  and  artificial 
compliments.  His  dictionary  was  published 
in  two  large  volumes  folio.  It  is  much  to 
say  of  this  work,  it  outlives  its  age,  without 
appearance  of  decrepitude  or  decay.  He 
issued  proposals  for  an  edition  of  Shakspeare, 
and  while  he  was  proceeding  with  it  he  was 
informed  that  the  king  had  granted  him  a 
^tension  of  three  hundred  pounds  a  year, 
lie  took  a  better  house,  and  allotted  an  apart 
ment  to  Mrs.  Williams,  a  daughter  of  Zachary 
Williams,  who  was  possessed  of  considerable 
poetic  talent,  but  who  was  totally  blind.  Her 
temper  was  perverse  and  irritable,  yet  noth 
ing  could  induce  him  to  withdraw  the  charity 
he  had  once  assumed.  His  home  was  often 
rendered  unpleasant  by  dependents  who  fat 
tened  on  his  bounty,  and  yet  he  often  said, 
"  If  I  dismiss  them,  who  will  take  care  of 
them!"  He  was  consoled  for  these  annoy- 


DK.    JOHNSON.  357 

ances  by  the  friendship  of  the  Thrale  family, 
whose  hospitality  afforded  him  the  comforts 
of  an  elegant  and  substantial  home.  An  im 
promptu  to  Mrs.  Thrale  on  the  completion 
of  her  35th  year  is  another  proof  of  his 
ready  versification : 

Oft  in  danger,  yet  alive, 

"We  are  come  to  thirty-five ; 

Long  may  better  years  arrive, 

Better  years  than  thirty-five. 

Could  philosophers  contrive, 

Life  to  stop  at  thirty-five, 

Time  his  hours  should  never  drive 

O'er  the  bounds  cf  thirty-five. 

High  to  soar  and  deep  to  dive, 

Nature  gives  at  thirty-five. 

Ladies,   stock  and  tend  your  hive, 

Trifle  not   at  thirty-five. 

For  however  we  boast  and  strive, 

Life  declines  at  thirty-five. 


258  DR.    JOHNSON. 

He  that  ever  hopes  to  thrive 
Must  begin  at  thirty-five, 
And  all  who  wisely  wish  to  wive 
Must  look  on  Thrale  at  thirty-five. 

Some  of  the  bagatelles  published  in  1775 
are  sufficiently  ridiculous,  but  as  they  afford 
us  a  vein  of  Johnson  in  a  merry  mood,  they 
impart  an  interest,  Some  were  written  in 
burlesque  of  modern  versification  of  ancient 
legendary  tales,  as  follows : 

The  tender  infant,  meek  and  mild, 

Fell  down  upon  the  stone ; 
The  nurse  took  up  the  squealing  child, 

But  still  the  child  squealed  on. 

Another  of  the  same  kind : 

Where'er  I  turn  my  view, 
All  is  strange,  yet  nothing  new, 
.     Endless  labor  all  along, 
Endless  labor  to  be  wrong, 


DR.    JOHNSON.  359 

Phrase  that  time  has  flung  away, 
Uncouth  words  in  disarray, 
Tricked  in  antique  ruff  and  bonnet, 
Ode,  and  elegy  and  sonnet 

One  more,  a  parody  from  the   translation 
of  the  Medea  of  Euripides  : 

Err  snail  they  not,  who  resolute  explore 
Time's  g'oomy  backward  with  judicious  eyes; 

And  scanning  right  the  practises  of  yore, 
Shall  deem  our  hoar  progenitors  unwise. 

They  to  the  dome  where  smoke  with  curling   play 
Announced  the  dinner  to  the  regions  round, 

Summoned  the  singer  blithe  and  harper  gay, 
And  aided  wine  with  dulcet  streaming  sound. 

The  better  use  of  notes,  or  sweet  or  shrill, 
By  quivering  string  or  modulated  wind, 

Trumpet  or  lyre — to  their  harsh  bosoms  chill, 
Admission  ne'er  had  sought  or  could  not  find. 


360  DR.   JOHNSON. 

Oh,  send  them  to  the  sullen  mansions  dun, 
Her  baleful  eyes  where  sorrow  rolls  around, 

Where,  gloom  enamored,  mischief  loves  to  dwell, 
And  murder,  all  blood  boltered,  schemes  the  wound. 

Where  cates  the  luxuriant  pile  the  spacious  dish, 
And  purple  nectar  glads  the  festive  hour, 

The  guest  without  a  want,  without  a  wish, 
Can  yield  no  room  to  music's  soothing  power. 

Although  the  success  of  Dr.  Johnson's 
Shakspeare  was  not  great  at  first,  it  in 
creased  the  respect  for  his  ability,  and  his 
talents  were  fully  recognized  by  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  from  which  institution  he 
received  the  title  of  Doctor  of  Laws.  He  was 
in  the  following  year  admitted  to  a  personal 
interview  with  the  king,  in  the  library  of  the 
queen's  palace,  and  soon  after  was  appointed 
professor  of  ancient  literature.  Many  of 


DR.    JOHNSON.  361 

Johnson's  friends,  and  among  them  Mr.  Stra- 
han,  the  king's  printer,  were  anxious  to  pro 
cure  him  a  seat  in  parliament.  His  biogra 
phers  have  made  themselves  merry  and 
amused  their  readers  not  a  little  with  conjec 
tures  as  to  the  ridiculous  figure  he  would 
have  made  there.  His  sense  of  right  would 
have  prevented  him  from  being  a  mere  party 
man.  He  very  much  opposed  the  principle 
that  "  a  man  should  go  with  his  party,  right 
or  wrong."  "  This,"  he  once  said,  "  is  so  re 
mote  from  national  virtue,  from  scholastic 
virtue,  that  a  good  man  must  have  under 
gone  a  great  change  before  he  can  reconcile 
himself  to  such  a  doctrine.  It  is  maintaining 
that  you  may  lie  to  the  public,  for  you  do 
lie  when  you  call  that  right  which  you  think 
wrong,  or  the  reverse."  In  his  "Taxation 
no  Tyranny,"  he  endeavored  to  show  that 
distant  colonies  which  had  in  their  assemblies 


'3G2  DR.  JOHNSON. 

a  legislature  of  their  own,  were  still  liable 
to  be  taxed  in  a  British  parliament,  where 
they  had  no  representatives,  and  he^thought 
Britain  was  strong  enough  to  force  obedience. 
He  afterwards  felt  keenly  the  unpopularity 
of  his  views,  but  would  not  permit  himself 
to  acknowledge  the  force  and  strength  that 
were  brought  against  him.  At  a  meeting 
of  a  great  number  of  the  most  respectable 
booksellers  of  London,  it  was  unanimously 
agreed  that  an  elegant  and  uniform  edition  of 
the  English  poets  should  be  printed,  with 
an  account  of  the  life  of  each  author,  by 
Dr.  Samuel  Johnson;  and  a  committee  ac 
cordingly  waited  upon  him  with  proposals. 
He  entered  upon  the  task  with  avidity.  All 
that  was  expected  from  him  would  have  been 
embraced  in  a  concise  and  succinct  account 
of  each  poet,  but  he  continued  to  expatiate 
and  criticise,  until  at  last  he  presented  to 


DR.   JOHNSON  363 

tlie  world  a  work  which  could  scarcely  be 
credited  as  emanating  from  the  pen  of  a  man 
bordering  on  seventy.  He  enjoyed  all  the 
triumphs  of  success  in  the  avidity  with 
which  his  "Lives  of  the  Poets"  were  read 
and  praised,  and  he  did  not  fail  to  enjoy 
another  satisfaction,  which  he  had  always 
contended  a  writer  must  expect.  He  was 
attacked  on  all  sides  by  friends  of  the  dif 
ferent  poets.  Some  contended  he  had  said 
too  little,  while  others  contended  he  had 
said  too  much,  as  both  quantity  and  quality 
were  disagreeable.  During  his  life  his  oppo 
nents  were  sufficiently  busy,  but  it  was 
astonishing  how  they  increased  in  malignity 
and  force  after  his  death.  Concealed  hostility 
now  showed  itself  even  from  those  who  had 
but  a  short  time  since  been  voluble  in  his 
praise.  But  it  was  his  fate  to  receive  the 
just  reward  of  his  transendent  genius,  re- 


364  DR.   JOHNSON. 

verecl  by  the  \vhoie  Englisli  world.  His 
name  is  honored  in  the  catalogue  of  her 
most  gifted  sons. 

He  was  solemnly  interred  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  close  by  the  grave  of  Garrick,  his 
pupil  and  his  friend. 


AVB   MARIA.  365 


AVE  MARIA. 


Ave  Maria,  the  shadows  arc  stealing, 

Ave  Marin,  sweet  anthems  are  pealing, 

Soft  while  they're  falling  o'er  earth  and  o'er  sea, 

Sweet  Mary,  my  mother,  I  turn  unto  thee. 

The  zephyr  is  stealing  ere  daylight  reposes, 
The  breath  of  the  lily,  the  scent  of  the  roses, 
The  birdling  is  hushing  his  gay  woodlaad  strain, 
But  the  night-bird  is  chanting  a  sweeter  refrain. 

The  earth  is  all  beauty,  all  gladness  and  love, 
From  the  world  at  our  feet  to  the  bright  stars  above, 
My  heart  is  elated  such  brightness  to  see, 
And  it  turns  in  devotion,  sweet  mother,  to  thee. 


>66  HYMN   OP   THE   NATIVITY. 


HYMN  OF  THE  NATIVITY. 


Alone  on  Bethlehem's  wooded  heights 

They  watched,  that  shepherd  band  of  old, 

Thro'  the  long  wastes  of  dreary  night, 
Guarding  their  fleecy  fold. 

Simple  and  poor,  of  patient  faith, 
Perchance  they  knew  not  that  the  signs, 

Long  typified  by  prophets  old, 
The  ransom  sprung  from  David's  line 

Were  all  accomplished  and  the  hour, 
The  blissful  hour  at  length  was  here, 

When  attestations  of  the  truth, 
With  words  of  promise  laden  cheer, 


HYMN  OF  THE  NATIVITY.  367 

Were  even  now,  from 'angel's  lips, 

Vibrating  on  the  midnight  air, 
But  suddenly  a  brightness  shone, 

And  thro'  the  waves  of  glory  there. 

In  sounds  of  softest  dulcet  tone, 
These  words  fell  on  the  'frighted  ear, 

Be  not  afraid,  oh  shepherd  men, 
I  bring  you  tidings  glad  to  cheer. 

"Good  will  to  all  and  peace  to  men," 

A  Saviour  King  this  day  is  born, 
Oh,  ne'er  was  sung  so  sweet  a  lay, 

To  usher  in  a  gladsome  morn. 


368  TO  MY  SISTER. 

TO  MY  SISTER, 

ON  ENTERING   A  RELIGIOUS  STATE. 


And  thou  wilt  go,  my  sister, 

From  home,  dear  home,  to  dwell, 
And  leave  those  scenes  of  early  youth 

"We  both  have  loved  so  well. 
Thy  place  will  soon  be  vacant, 

I  feel  it  even  now, 
When  I  gaze  upon  thy  placid  face, 

Thy  meek,  religious  brow. 

I  shall  miss  thy  tender  greeting, 

Thy  pleasant  cheerful  tone, 
The  bounding  step,  the  dear  embrace, 

The  arm  around  me  thrown; 
I  shall  listen  for  thy  coming, 

Scarce  believing  thou  art  gone, 
'Till  grief  and  sadness  like  a  pall, 

Are  'round  my  pathway  thrown. 


TO   MY  SISTER.  3G9 

The  future,  how  its  shadows  fall 

Upon  my  sinking  heart, 
Each  passing  murmur  seems  to  breathe, 

Soon,  soon,  she  will  depart. 
How  lonely,  oh,  how  lonely, 

Our  father's  hearth  will  be, 
For  every  memory,  as  it  floats, 

Will  bring  back  thoughts  of  thee. 

But  it  is  worse  than  useless, 

These  fond  but  vain  regrets, 
Why  should  my  spirit  anguish, 

That  thine  hath  found  its  rest. 
Then  go,  sweet  sister,  word  of  mine 

Shall  never  bid  thee  stay, 
When  God  hath  whispered  to  the  heart, 

Its  mandate  is  obey. 

We  yield  thee,  Lord,  our  treasure, 

But  let  this  hope  remain, 
That  in  a  world  of  changeless  love, 

Our  souls  shall  meet  again. 

24 


370  AYE  SANCTISSIMA. 


AYE  SANCTISSIMA. 


Mater  celorum,  sweet  virgin  ever  blest, 
Ave  sanctissima,  oh,  hear  a  heart  oppressed; 

Guide  thou  thy  pleading  child, 

Wandering  on  life's  stormy  sea, 
Shield  her  with  thy  saving  love, 

And  bring  her  safe  to  thee. 
Bend  down  thy  loving  eye, 

Grant  her  thy  pitying  ear 
To  thee  in  hope  we  fly, 

Oh,  virgin  mother  hear. 

Ave  mater  ave, 
Hear  our  lonely  cry, 

Sancte  Mater  Dei, 
Mother  ever  nigh. 


AYE    SANCTISSIMA.  371 

Sancte  Maria,  to  thee  it  hath  been  given, 
Aid  to  lead  the  recreant  thro'  mercy's  gate  to 
Heaven ; 

By  that  holy  grace  conferred, 

Thro'  that  glorious  son  adored, 

Hear  thou  our  fervent  prayer. 

Mother  of  our  Lord. 

Through  the  darkness  of  the  night. 
Pray  that  calin  our  slumbers  be, 
Fill  our  hearts  with  holy  love, 
For  Jesus  and  for  thee. 

Avc  mater  ave, 
Hear  our  lonely  cry, 
Sancte  Mater  Dei, 
Mother  ever  uigh. 


372  CHRISTMAS  MORN. 


CHRISTMAS  MORN. 


"In  some  parts  of  Germany  it  is  a 
custom  for  aged  men  enveloped  in  long 
cloaks  to  go  from  house  to  house  on  Christ 
mas  morn,  and  announce  the  birth  of  Christ. 
They  remind  one  in  their  appearance  of 
the  description  of  Palmer's,  from  the  Holy 
Land."  They  are  regarded  as  such  in  the 
following : 

Ho,   Christian  knights   and    gentlemen,   I  pray    yo 

listen  well, 
For  I  have  traveled  many  a  league,  a  story  strange 

to  tell, 
Of  one  who  left   His  Father's   hall,  his   home    and 

high  estate, 
The  glory  and  the  honor  which  no   tongue   could 

e'er  relate. 


CHRISTMAS  MORN.  373 

To  be  an  humble  babe,  with  scarce  a  shelter  old, 
To  shield  his  tender  helplessness  from  misery  and 

cold, 
No  trappings  He  of  costly  silk,   no    bed   of   eider 

down, 
His  cradle  crib  a  manger,  upon  His  head  no  crown. 


Yet  monarch  He  of  Heaven  and  earth,  for  on  this 

happy  day, 
An  angel  baud  with  joy  elate,  proclaims  the  attesting 

lay, 
And  still    the   burden   of  their  song   from  glowing 

eve  till  morn, 
Is  glory  be  to  God  on  high,  for  Christ  our  King  13 

born. 


And  from  a  far  off  distant  land,  skilled  in  prophetic 

lore, 
"With  sandal  shoon  and  scallop  shell  placed  in  each 

hat  before, 


374  CHRISTMAS  MORN. 

Three  hoary  men  are  journeying,  though    wearied 

they  and  old, 
To  place  their  treasures  at  His  feet,  of  frankinseuce 

and  gold. 

Now  all  good  Christian  people,  I  pray  ye  quick  repair, 
To  Bethlehem,  in  Juda,  for  Christ  our  King  is  there. 
Come  hasten,  quickly  hasten,  in  lowliness  adore, 
This  wondrous  King  and  Saviour,  ours  for  evermore. 


IN  MEMORUM.  375 

IN  MEMORIAM. 

INSCRIBED    TO    H.    C. 


Farewell,  farewell,  'ere  Time  with  iron  band  hath 
Plowed  its  furrows  deep  upon  thy  brow. 
With  eyes  undimmed  by  tears,  with  heart,  untouched 
By  sorrow's  deadly  blight,  Death  called  thes  hence, 
And  now  no  more  at  that  soft  hour,  when  love 
Unites  her  dear  ones  at  the  household  hearth, 
May  we  greet  again  thy  gentle  presence, 
"Vfhich  often  with  its  kindness  bland  beguil'd 
The  clouded  brow  and  wearied  heart  to  peace. 
Yet  faithful  love  is  lingering  still  to  catch, 
Thro'  gathering  gloom,  thy  gladsome  step  and  note, 
So  sweet  of  song  dear,  herald  of  our  own. 
Oh,  sad  to  think  it  never  more  may  be. 
The  vacant  chair,  the  missing  love,  too  truly 
Tell  the  home's  bereavement;  yet  haply  thou 
I  last  never  known  the  weary  ways  of  life, 


376  IN  MEMORIAM. 

Ne'er  felt  the  anxious  insecurity, 

The  hope  deferred,  nor  slaked  thy  thirst 

At  Marah's  fount,  gathered  golden  hopes, 

Like  Dead  Sea  fruit,  to  find  them  ashes  at 

The  core ;  and  now  with  all  the  memory 

Of  thy  early  days  still  lingering  here, 

We  give  thee  to  thy  God.     Oh,  slight  the  tie, 

Which  severs  Life  from  Death,  and  flings  o'er  all 

The  sunny  loveliness  of  youth  the  shadows  of 

The  grave. 


BEAUTIFUL  RIYER.  377 


BEAUTIFUL  RIVER. 


Beautiful  river,  flowing  river, 
Ever  onward  to  the  sea, 

Bear  on  thy  foaming  bosom, 
The  message  I  fling  to  thee. 

On,  on  to  the  trackless  ocean, 
On,  on  to  the  sounding  main, 

Where  one  we  love  in  exile 
Pines  for  his  home  again. 

Tell  him  the  silver  streamlet 
From  its  icy  bond  made  free, 

Dances  in  rippling  measure 
To  its  own  sweet  melody. 


3T8  BEAUTIFUL  RIVER. 

Tell  him  the  clover  springeth, 
The  robin  weaves  his  nest, 

The  tender  grass  is  springing 
From  its  cold  and  wiutry  rest. 

And  we  are  wearily  watching 
Adown  the  winding  lane, 

For  the  quickened  tread,  the  footstep 
That  cometh  not  again. 

.     Now  speed  thee,  beautiful  river, 

Nor  linger  on  thy  way, 
The  gladness  of  reunion 
Brings  sunshine  to  our  day. 


FAEEWELL.  379 


FAREWELL. 


And  now,  Farewell ;  my  pleasant  task  is  o'er, 
And.  dear  beguilemeiits  from  old  memory's  store, 
"Which  solaced  oftentimes  a  wearied  hour, 
Though  told  in  simple  rhymes  and  lacking  power, 
Have  spoke  a  language  which,  albeit  the  dress, 
Your  gentle  hearts  and  partial  love  confess, 
Yet,  oh,  how  faint,  how  puerile,  how  weak 
These  timid  numbers  which  essay  to  speak; 
The  tender  love,  the  fond  desire  to  sec, 
All  that  a  parent's  heart  could  ask  in  thee. 
If  in  the  lives  which  I  have  sought  to  trace, 
Your  eyes  may  scan  a  fault  which  might  deface, 
Remember  truth  has  bid  record  it  all, 
The  genius  fame  and  sadly  oft  the  fall. 
And  now  with  blessings  on  each  fair  young  head, 
My  last  Farewell  in  fondest  love  is  said. 

FINIS. 


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